Murder Games
by enRAGEd
Summary: CT2 AU. Leanne Rosier, sole survivor of the Clock Tower Killings, thinks that the worst is over. But when the brutal game of murder begins again, will she and an all new cast of characters be able to make it through alive? A deviantART community project.
1. Prelude: The First Fear

**A/N:** This is the first chapter of a deviantART community project being run by myself and my beloved Shakahnna. Essentially, we played a little bit too much Clock Tower 2 and decided that we wanted to write a story along the same lines, but with a host of new characters based on our friends over at dA. Turn out for this project was amazing, with around thirteen characters applying, and we now have the story planned out in detail. I will be writing and submitting it here, and on dA.

A note I should make about the story: This takes place in an Alternate Universe, in which Leanne Rosier, an original character submitted by one of our entrants (123LeaLea on dA), was the fifth orphan sent to the Barrows Mansion, out of which she emerged the sole survivor, as you will soon see. The real story will begin with the next chapter, but this is necessary, I feel, to set the tone for the story and also explain the differences between this new story and the original Clock Tower: First Fear game. I hope everyone who reads this will enjoy it, as I think it will be an excellent piece of fiction.

**Prelude: The First Fear**

She splashed through the mire, treading sludge, arms flailing frantically as she fought to stay upright. Tears streamed down her cheeks, cutting tracks of pristine skin through the abysmal muck staining her face. She threw herself at the opposite bank, dragging herself inch by agonising inch up the muddy incline. Her feet skidded out from under her, dropping her into the grime, her hands gripping at the sodden earth, all to no avail. Her breath escaped in ragged sobs as she climbed, clawing at the dirt, sliding back one foot for every two she managed to gain.

Behind her, the freakish abomination from the Cradle under the Star let out a hideous gurgle, crawling through the bog after her as she fled. She didn't know what it wanted with her, she just knew she didn't want to find out. It was evil in mind and body, that much was clear the moment she had first seen it, when the crimson curtain drew back to reveal its immense, corpulent body, a bloated sac of flesh, black as sin, with eyes that practically glowed with cruelty.

Her pace quickened as she scrabbled desperately up the slope, her body caked in mud from the climb. Her lungs burned with the effort, so much running, so much crying, so much terror. Dragging her aching form over the lip of the pit from which she'd pulled herself, she lay panting for a few moments. She watched the abomination as it began to come after her, hauling itself onwards on its deformed forelimbs like some monstrous infant. She let out a hoarse croak, her throat feeling as though it were coated with sandpaper, and she realised that she had no more screams left in her.

She rolled over, catching sight of the generator that powered the lights strung from the ceiling. Her eyes locked on the metal drum standing beside it, and the warning label stuck to its surface. She crawled to it, movements mimicking those of her pursuer, until she had reached its far side. Her bare feet lashed out, meeting the cold iron, and then it toppled, spilling gasoline as it tumbled down the muddy hillock. The monster let out a groan as the barrel slammed into it, wedging against its huge frame.

Without waiting another moment, she aimed a second vicious kick at an electric lamp beside the petrol engine and watched it fall, smashing in a flurry of sparks in the puddle of flammable liquid. Fire sprang up, a searing wave of it rushing down towards the creature, washing over it, engulfing it, consuming it. It let out a horrific moan as it burned, its fatty flesh melting off its bones, the stink of it filling the cavern.

And with her flame-red hair matted and dull, with her clothing soaked and dirtied, with her body battered and bruised, and with her eyes wide and wild, Leanne stood atop the slope and watched it die.

-x-x-x-x-x-

She practically fell into the elevator compartment, barely feeling the impact as her body hit the metal. She jabbed at a button - any button, they all looked the same - and lay on the floor in a crumpled heap waiting for the ascent, waiting to be free of the nightmarish cavern. With the death of the unholy abomination, the cave beneath the Barrows mansion had begun to collapse, almost as though its demonic power had been all that held it together in the first place. Weathered stone had fallen like rain all around her as she fled. Finding the elevator had been pure fortune. She could still hear the rumble of destruction, growing fainter as she rose.

She lay, almost catatonic, consumed by the horror of what she had witnessed that night. Images of her friends, happy and smiling, turned to screaming faces stained with gore, flashing through her mind.

She saw Laura, hung from the shower fitting above the bath, drenched to the bone with scalding hot water, eviscerated, her blood spiralling the drain beneath. She saw Anne, dragged to her death beneath the surface of the leaf-strewn swimming pool, her features slack, eyes water-logged and upward staring. She saw Lotte, bleeding to death from a bullet wound to the stomach, gore slick hands clutching at the hole, lips stained red as she coughed away her life. She saw Jennifer, strewn upon a sacrificial alter, her chest carved open, her heart removed and used in some vile ritual.

She saw it all and then the shadow of the Scissorman, the dread stalker that had killed her friends and doggedly pursued her through the manor, loomed in her mind. Though it was only a figment of her overwrought imagination, she still flinched when his scissors snapped shut, the familiar noise bringing abject terror even as a memory. She shook away the fear, forcing herself to remember that she was alone, the silence broken only by the gentle hum of the elevator that bore her to the surface.

But then the box shook with a sudden impact as something landed on its roof. For a moment, she thought that the shaft was collapsing alive, that the extent of the damage was so great that she couldn't outrun it. She was going to be crushed to death, or worse, buried alive. Instead, two silvery spikes crusted with dried blood speared through the ceiling, rending apart the steel. She backed away in silent panic as the Scissorman's grim death mask, slack and leathery, like a peeled human face worn over his own, glared down at her. Her finger found the controls and she pushed them all, hammering at the panel in blind terror.

That was when the doors opened, revealing nothing but empty corridor. She fled, naked feet slapping wetly on cold tile, shivering in the sudden chill. She ran as fast as her aching legs could carry her as the doors slid shut behind her, carrying her inhuman pursuer upwards and away.

-x-x-x-x-x-

She staggered into the wall, dragging herself into the shadows of an open doorway, shuddering in the darkness. She clamped her mouth shut around her chattering teeth, pressing her flesh of her right palm against her lips, holding her breath as she desperately tried to stay quiet. She had heard footsteps in the hallway and, when she strained her ears to listen, she heard them again, the unmistakable clack of high heeled shoes. Fear rose in a swell inside her as a woman in a grey suit jacket and skirt stalked past, light glinting on the blade of the butcher knife clutched tightly in her hand.

"Where are you, you little whore?" Ms Mary snarled, standing with her back to the room where Leanne hid, struck dumb and petrified with fright, "you killed my son. He was _everything _that was important to me and you took him away. You were nothing - you and your friends - just sacrifices, just food, just blood and meat to help him grow strong, to give him the power to open the door. How _dare_ you interfere!"

With each word, her voice grew tighter, working herself up into a frenzy of hysterical rage. Her quarry reeled at the flood of revelations. Somehow, Mary had given birth to the freakish abomination that she had seen in the basement. It really had been the spawn of the devil, born to fulfil some dark purpose on the earth.

Worse than that was the knowledge that she and her friends had been lured here deliberately to feed the monster. They had come willingly, thinking it would be their last chance for adoption, their last chance to escape a life of poverty. They were all nearing eighteen. Soon they would have been forced out into the world with what little possessions they had managed to accrue during their time at the Granite Orphanage, left to fend for themselves.

Mary had offered them more than that meagre fate, so much more, in the form of Simon Barrows, the kindly but childless owner of a sprawling estate in the hills, who wanted nothing more than a family.

But it had all been lies, a ruse to lure them to their deaths, nothing but sacrificial lambs to an unholy slaughter at the hands of the Scissorman.

This time it was Leanne's turn to feel the rage curdling in her gut, her pounding heart suddenly burning with fury, aimed at the person who had orchestrated this whole terrible nightmare. She fumbled in the darkness a weapon, her hands seizing a bulky statue of some kind from the top of a dresser. But even as she hefted the item, she saw her own wet footprints glistening in the passage, leading right to where she was standing. With horror, she realised that Mary had seen them too.

Even as she turned to look into the room, however, the redhead lunged forward, a grating, frenzied shriek escaping her lips as she brought her makeshift bludgeon around. The ornament's leaden base struck the older woman full in the mouth and knocked her to the ground. The knife clattered on the tiles moments before the statue slipped out of her quivering fingers and cracked the flooring.

Before she could even spit out the mouthful of blood and splintered teeth, the girl was already running, fleeing along the corridor. She pushed through a door at the end of the hall and emerged into the rain. Thick, dark clouds rolled overhead. Lightning flashed and thunder growled. In seconds, she was soaked to the skin, her hair hanging sodden around her face. She left a trail of watery filth behind her as the mud from the pit was washed away. Gravel sliced her feet apart as she ran across the pathway and onto the lawn beyond. She tried to climb the wrought iron fence that bordered the forest, but she couldn't grip the slick bars.

She turned back to the mansion and saw Mary striding towards her, gore-stained features twisted in an enraged snarl, eyes filled with murder, knife once again in hand. Lightning flashed again, bathing the yard in fierce, actinic light. It made the woman look almost as much a monster as her demonic child.

Leanne saw a tower to her left, ascending to the angry heavens, a huge clock face at its top. She ran to it, knowing that she was otherwise trapped, and pushed through the doorway at its base. Inside was silent, save the patter of rain and the crash of thunder. Ahead was a ladder and above was only darkness, but she was dead if she didn't escape. She started to climb, clinging tightly to the rungs for fear that her wet hands and feet might send her plummeting to her death. She didn't look back, but she knew that Mary would follow her all the same.

Sure enough, a hand grabbed her ankle roughly, almost making her lose her grip. She let out a yelp and tried to climb faster, but her limbs felt tired and heavy. The hand snatched at her again, this time catching hold of her dress's ripped hem. It had once been her nicest outfit, reserved only for the most special of occasions, but now it was little more than a dirtied, bloody rag. She held on firmly as another hand gripped her calf, icy fingers digging into her flesh, threatening to pull her off the ladder.

She clung tighter and then kicked out behind her in a panic, the skin of her foot smashing into Mary's nose. The other woman let out an ear-splitting scream that echoed through the tower's heights, and then stopped dead with a dull thud a few seconds later.

Leanne clutched the cold steel of the ladder's rungs for a few long moments. She didn't look down. She couldn't.

With nothing else to do, she kept climbing, until she reached the very top of the Clock Tower.

-x-x-x-x-x-

It was silent in the tower's uppermost reaches. The machinery had been shut off long ago, the gears still and heavy with dust, and the immense bells that hung above had been quiet ever since. The time had been mere seconds to midnight for years.

She pulled herself up, ignoring the splintered boards beneath her bleeding feet as she trudged away from the ladder, her arms wrapped around her own body in a protective embrace. Tears rolled down her cheeks, her eyes raw from the constant crying.

Her mind went back to Lotte. She had always been Leanne's favourite, a fellow redhead and an eternal optimist, in her own way. While the other girls had all been giddy with excitement about the possibility of finding a home with the wealthy Simon Barrows, she had remained stalwartly pragmatic. They had all worn their best clothes and finest jewellery to try and impress him; Lotte had worn a t-shirt and jeans, as though it were any other day. She was prepared to make her own way in the world; if Barrows had wanted her then that was good, and if not that was fine too. Leanne had admired her for that.

It had been Lotte who had released her from the cage in the courtyard, where the body of their supposed new father had lain rotting. And it had been Lotte who had confronted Ms Mary, while she hid and waited for the ordeal to be over. She remembered watching her friend die as her blood spread out in a crimson halo around her body, remembered the last words that had escaped her gory mouth.

"_Don't cry, Leanne."_

But no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't stop.

Her breath caught in her burning chest when she heard movement. Her heart, which had hardly slowed for a moment, began to race once again, thundering so hard that she thought it might burst. The sky flashed white once more, the lightning strike illuminating the belfry through the glass clock face. A huge silhouette appeared on the floor, the shadow engulfing her where she stood, a human figure with two immense wings jutting from its back.

And then the wings snapped shut with a metal clang that made her hammering heart skip a beat.

She spun around as the Scissorman landed in front of her with a heavy thud, grotesque, leathery head bowed beneath his cowl. He stalked towards her, eyes filled with menace, the sharp points of his twin blades pointing at her sternum, ready to impale her. She backed away, knowing that there was nowhere left to run, even as he advanced towards her, every slow, deliberate movement designed to terrorise her.

Her back struck a panel, the feel of it against her body almost causing her to yelp and leap forward, but fear of what stood before her kept her in check. He continued to bear down on her, snapping his scissors shut and visibly delighting in how she flinched away. Then, he drew them back and thrust them at her stomach.

She threw herself to the side at the last moment, letting out a cry as she fell to the ground, the rough flooring scraping the flesh of her arms. His blades plunged into the machine that she had collided with, slicing cleanly through the metal and into whatever mechanism lay beneath. Her stalker threw his head back and let out an animal scream of anguish as a surge of electricity raced through his body, his scissors acting as the bridge to mend the circuit. Gears began to grind in the darkness, chains clinking as they rose and fell. He recoiled, leaving his weapon rooted in the machinery, smoke rising from his head and shoulders, his breaths coming in heavy groans.

She watched him, transfixed and horrified, and then his head snapped around, his murderous eyes locking with hers. He raised his hands and advanced towards her, moving his fingers to encircle her throat.

That was when the bells began to chime, immense bronze goliaths rocking back and forth as the clock's hands finally, after so many long years, reached midnight. Leanne clapped her hands over her ears. Even the Scissorman was not immune, shrieking as he clutched at the sides of his head. As the deafening peels drowned out the sounds of the rain and the thunder, something huge from above slipped its moorings and plunged down, smashing through the dusty boards in a shower of splinters. The floor fell away beneath her stalker's feet and he slipped into the darkness below, vanishing from sight.

The bells continued their inexorable booming until at last they fell silent, leaving only the dull sound of the turning gears in their place.

Leanne tried to stand, pushing herself up, before slumping back to the ground, weariness setting in. Though the wheels continued to grind, and the rain continued to fall, and the thunder continued to rumble, she succumbed, slipping into unconsciousness.

-x-x-x-x-x-

She wasn't sure how much time had passed before she finally awoke, but when she opened her eyes it was to daylight. She felt weightless, almost as though she were drifting on some unseen current. She felt curiously light-headed and all of her pain was gone. For a moment, she almost believed that she had died, lying on the floor of the Clock Tower. But she could feel the soft touch of a light breeze against her cheek and smell the pollen in the air. She certainly wasn't dead.

Eventually, she realised that she was lying on some kind of bed, a soft pillow cushioning her head, warm sheets cocooning her body. She could hear voices, some raised in the distance, others hushed nearby. When she tried to see who was speaking, she couldn't get her eyes to focus. The sunlight was making it difficult for her to see in her hazy half-wakefulness.

The brightness dimmed as she was moved into an enclosed space where the shade allowed her eyes to adjust. White walls held a variety of boxes and instruments. Red crosses and complex instructions adorned everything she looked at. She recognised it as the rear compartment of an ambulance. As she lay, drugged and comfortably numb on her gurney, a pleasant female face appeared above her, a soft hand touching her hair gently.

"Don't worry. You're going to be okay," the nurse told her, "everything's going to be okay."

-x-x-x-x-x-


	2. Intermission One: Starting Over

**A/N:** This is the first chapter of the real Murder Games story. This is the first Intermission chapter before the first real Scenario. The cast for this chapter is as follows: David Carter (me, weskerian on dA), Alana Rayner (Shakahnna on dA), Leanne Rosier (123LeaLea on dA), Mori Aureolus (LonelyMori on dA), Angela Leavantis (Paul16 on dA), and Alka Kunnas (ES-Dinah on dA). All other characters are original NPC's created by myself, or adapted from the original CT2, as in the case of Detective Gotts. This all takes place in the fictional town of Greenville, which is "somewhere in the Midwest".

**Intermission One: ****Starting Over**

It had been two weeks since the Greenville Police Department had been called out to investigate some kind of seismic disturbance forty miles north of the city limits. That disturbance had turned out to be the collapse of a natural cavern beneath a privately owned mansion, where they'd found the bodies of thirty five dead children. The case was the most disturbing in the town's history. Greenville itself had one of the lowest crime rates in the American Midwest. The last big crime had been a vandalised phone mast the month before, and the kids responsible for that were already out on bail.

The details of the so-called "Clock Tower Killings" spread out before Detective David Carter like nightmares poured onto paper. Dead bodies caught in glossy stills lay alongside supposed adoption records for each murdered child. Beside those was a thick dossier, containing each item meticulously catalogued during the department's week-long investigation of the mansion. He was close to being able to recall every article specified in it by memory; it was certainly better than looking at the photographs, with their lifeless, staring eyes and slack faces. Next to that were the tapes of the interviews with their only witness, Leanne Rosier, complete with transcripts, which read like a horror novel, but without the safety net of fiction.

He'd only been a detective for the past two months, ever since he'd encountered a wanted murderer from New York on the streets. He'd only been a regular patrol officer at the time, but the man had run and he'd given chase, almost without thinking. Part of him had been certain that he was going to die, that the killer would double back and put a knife between his ribs without so much as batting an eyelid. Instead, the man had tried to jump the rail of a footbridge and ended up plummeting into oncoming traffic.

The chase, and its anti-climactic end, had made him a front page sensation. That was why he'd been promoted. That was why the case had landed in his lap. That was why everyone was looking to him to solve one of the most appalling multiple homicides in recorded history.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling another migraine coming on, and gathered up the photographs, with their withered, decaying faces, tucking them back into their manila envelope. He could only look at them so long before he felt his gorge begin to rise, sickness brewing in his stomach at the thought of so many young, innocent lives snuffed out. He didn't have the experience to handle this case - in fairness, no one in the G.P.D did - but what he lacked in experience he hoped he could make up for in determination.

Downing his cup of water, he was about to stand and get himself another when Detective Gotts came by his desk, a stern expression plastered across his weathered features.

"Weaver wants to see you," he said, "bring your case."

He didn't explain why he was being called away - by the Chief of Police, no less - but Carter could make an educated guess that it wasn't good news. Sighing to himself, he stood up and gathered his files.

"I'll be right there," he replied, as the other man walked away through the crowded office.

-x-x-x-x-x-

When the door banged shut, the noise of the busy office outside fell to a faint murmur. Carter straightened the front of his charcoal-coloured suit jacket with the hand that wasn't currently full of documents, and turned to look over at his boss. Police Chief Hank Weaver, a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man who'd always been meant for bigger things than Greenville, looked up expectantly.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" the blond asked him.

"Sit down, David," his superior responded, gesturing to the chair across the desk from his own.

Carter did as he suggested. He was now surer than ever that this was going to be bad news. The Chief usually had time for pleasantries, but today he was all business. If there was one thing that Weaver knew how to do, it was draw the line between boss and friend. He was up for a laugh and a joke as much as the rest of the precinct. But when the time came to put his subordinates in their place, he did it, without hesitation and without concern for what they might think of him. For the most part, the younger man respected him, at least for how difficult his job was, even if not for the decisions he made.

Something told him he wasn't going to like this decision much either.

"I'm closing the Clock Tower case," he said, as soon as Carter had taken his seat, confirming his suspicions immediately.

"On what grounds?" he asked, restraining the outrage he could already feel bubbling up inside him.

"On the grounds that the murderer is already dead," the Chief replied, taking hold of the dossier that Carter had brought in and flicking through the pages, "I've read your summary of the case - outstanding work on collating all that evidence, by the way - and it seems fairly elementary to me. Mary Barrows' fingerprints were found on the murder weapons..."

He reached into the folder, removing sheet after sheet and slapping them down on the desk in front of his subordinate. A photograph of a butcher knife lying on a tiled floor, another of a hunting rifle left discarded in dirt, a third of what looked like a pair of fused and buckled ornamental garden shears - all had been used in the slayings.

"...her D.N.A was found on the bodies of several different victims..."

More pictures landed on the tabletop, each thump like a nail slamming into the lid of the case's coffin, images of children's hands, delicate fingernails chipped and bloody from their dying struggle.

"...and we have her signature on all thirty-seven adoption certificates, including the ones for our survivors..."

The stack of certificates, bound at their middle with a thick elastic band, thumped down in front of him, almost like Weaver had decided to forgo the nails and just throw a slab of concrete on the casket.

"She even has the perfect motive. We have medical documents from ten years ago, when these murders first started, explicitly stating that Mary Barrows gave birth to stillborn twins, right here in Greenville. A trauma like that would be enough to shake a person's sanity, but to find out that her husband was engaged in an affair with another woman? All the evidence adds up. She killed her husband and his mistress in a fit of jealous rage. Grief-stricken at the loss of her sons, she adopted orphans from around the state under the guise of being Simon Barrows' representative, and then killed them too, probably when they realised that she'd lied to them. All I want to know is, if these are your conclusions thus far, why aren't _you _the one telling _me _to close this case?"

Carter had been dreading this moment for the past week, since his part in the investigation had started. He stayed quiet for a few moments, and when he spoke his voice was little more than a murmur. "Because Leanne Rosier's statement doesn't name Mary Barrows as the real killer."

"This 'Scissorman' she mentioned," Weaver said, nodding, "he doesn't exist. We didn't find another body in that bell tower, certainly not one who'd been electrocuted and crushed by falling debris. And even if we had, the killer would still be dead. The current running through that power box would have lit him up brighter than the fourth of July, and that fallen bell would have turned him into paste. There's nothing to gain by keeping this investigation open any longer."

"And what do we have to lose, _sir_?" the younger man asked him, the ire rising in his voice, despite his best efforts to suppress it.

"I'm not sure I like your tone, David," the Chief told him, a subtle threat in his even tone, before rocking back in his seat, clasping his hands in front of his chest, "we've had orders from the Mayor's office to bring a close to this case as soon as possible. The town is in an uproar over these murders - school attendance has dropped by 75%, for God's sake. We can't afford to let this case hang over the city like some kind of storm cloud, and we _especially _can't fill people's heads with nonsense about some supernatural killer who wields a giant pair of scissors. We have a duty to preserve the public peace..."

"I just think there's more to it than that, sir," Carter interrupted, but the other man glared him down, halting his objections as they came.

"You're young, and far too trusting for your own good. When you've been at this as long as I have, you'll learn not to believe everything that people say to you. Leanne Rosier has been an orphan most of her life; she's attention-starved and traumatised. It's not surprising that she's living in a fantasy world. I've made a request that she receive psychiatric help from Doctor Castleman at the Greenville Mental Health Centre."

"Sir, with all due respect, I don't think she'll be receptive to a stranger. She trusts Alana, and..."

"_Alana_?" the older man grunted, "you're too close to this one, David, so do as I ask and take a step back. We'll bring an end to the investigation and then we can all move on with our lives, Ms Rosier included. Don't force me to suspend you until this whole mess dies down."

Carter was silent, glaring into the middle distance for a few seconds, trying to compose himself - or make the water cooler in his superior's office burst into flames, one or the other. "Fine," he said eventually, standing up from his seat and moving to gather up the files littering the desk.

"Leave those."

He paused in mid-motion, half of the folders already in a neat stack on the tabletop. He stood back, letting the documents go, and then turned around to the door.

"You'll make a great cop one day, David," Weaver told him, as he pulled it open and a flood of noise from the office beyond rushed in to great him, "providing you don't jeopardise your career by doing something stupid."

"Thanks, Hank," he responded, and then slammed the door shut behind him.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The Greenville Municipal Library was a wide, white-brick building, a structure as old as the town itself. The architect had excelled himself. Broad, sculpted columns rose like tall, stone trees from before the front steps, holding aloft the boughs of carved archways, each depicting a different famous figure of science or literature. Before its grand exterior stood the central plaza, an immaculately-maintained garden, bordered by sculpted hedgerows and ornamental flower beds. It reminded Leanne of the Acropolis in Athens, where the Ancient Greeks had worshipped Athena, as though it had jumped from the pages into reality, though obviously less grand, and far less ancient.

There was a sense of peaceful tranquillity there that made her feel almost drawn to it. She had spent some of the most enjoyable hours of the past week there - reading and eating lunch in the sunshine and open air. It was a pleasure simply to be there, not least because of all the things she could learn. The Granite Orphanage had kept a library, where she had spent most of her time, but it had been tiny in comparison to the town's own.

This was also the place where her guardian, Alana, conducted most of her research, other than the University where she gave her lectures and seminars, and the apartment that they now shared. The swarm of journalists that had been pursuing her since she had first arrived in town kept their distance from the older woman, who had quickly picked up a reputation for being none too courteous to reporters. So long as Leanne looked like she was going to visit Alana, like she was now, she wouldn't have any trouble from them.

The only downside to the building, that she could see, was the spire of the decommissioned clock tower rising from its centre. The very sight of it was enough to bring back memories of the Barrows Mansion that made her mouth run dry and her heart wrench. Still, they were only memories, she assured herself, and that was what she really needed to remember. The only time she heard the snap of those steel scissors was in her dreams, when she would awaken screaming in the middle of the night, only to find herself in a comfortable bed at Alana's apartment.

Aside from that, her life was, it seemed, back to normal - better than normal, in fact. She would never need to go back to the Granite Orphanage again. Thanks to the police, she was now an emancipated minor, free to make her own decisions like an adult. Alana had even offered to support her while she began her life anew. Though she still didn't feel completely comfortable in the other woman's home, it now seemed, more than ever, that she had a future before her, one that she had never thought possible until now.

It was just difficult to relax considering what had happened the last time someone had agreed to take her in.

She turned her eyes away from the immense clock face looming high above, with its hands frozen just after half past three, and walked into the sanctuary of the library's interior. She pushed the unwanted memories away from her thoughts, focusing on the now.

"Hello, Miss Leanne," the clerk greeted from behind her desk, smiling as she looked up from her ledger, "how are you this afternoon?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Mori," the redhead replied, stopping for a moment in the presence of a friendly face who was rapidly becoming a familiar fixture of her new life, "uhm, is the clock tower...?"

"Still broken? Yes," the older woman said, her voice earnest and pleasant, "it has been since before I was born, Miss Leanne, remember? But if you like, I can speak with Mister Lorenzo again and make sure that he has no new plans to fix it."

"No, that's okay," she insisted, "I just ... don't particularly want to hear the bell chiming, that's all."

"I understand," Mori told her, with a nod, "please let me know if I can help you in any other way today."

"I will. Actually, do you know where Alana is at the moment?"

"Miss Alana is in the backroom using our telephone. Detective Carter called her from the police station a little while ago."

"So they still haven't fixed that cell tower yet?"

"I don't believe they have, no. But I understand they are working on it as we speak."

"Okay, thank you," Leanne said, before hurrying off to find her guardian.

-x-x-x-x-x-

"What do you mean he's closing the fucking case?" Alana Rayner barked, drawing disapproving looks and a few shouts of protest from the library's other occupants.

Apparently they could hear her even through the window separating her room from theirs. She even noticed a couple of them getting up to leave. Still, they shouldn't have been listening in on her private conversation, so she cheerily responded with a middle finger and turned her attention back to the phone.

"There was nothing I could do about it, Alana," Carter responded, his own tone almost apologetic, despite the fact that she wasn't angry with him, "Weaver's got it in his head that Mary was responsible for the murders and that's what the press release will say. He wasn't going to listen to me."

"But Leanne saidMary _wasn't_ the only killer," she pointed out, voice tight with annoyance.

"He thinks she made it all up," her lover told her, "or that it was all in her head. He was insisting that anyone fried by that electrical system the way she claimed would have been killed, and they didn't find a body."

"What?" she asked incredulously, to a fresh wave of exclamations from her fellow patrons next door, "what kind of fucking nonsense is that? They _didn't _find a body, so they're going to stop looking? Maybe I should have a little chat with him."

"I don't think that'll help. We've got to find a way to keep the case going. I'm heading up to the Granite Orphanage right now. I want to speak to the other survivor they found."

"You mean that ten year old blond kid you told me about? How's that going to help?"

"He didn't give a statement. The Child Protection Service took him away before we could find a suitable adult to sit in with him. Leanne knew more about what had happened than he did, so we didn't bother following up on him after he left. But if he confirms what she was saying about two killers then Weaver will have no choice but to keep the investigation open. I'll probably get suspended, but at least you two will be safe."

"If you get suspended then I'm going to kick Weaver in the balls," she told him, "but you don't need to worry about us. I'm not about to let anything happen to Leanne after what she's been through. Anyway, what if that doesn't work? What then?"

"Then I'll head back to the Barrows Mansion, see if I can find anything the C.S.I team missed. It's a long shot, but something might have been overlooked, some evidence that the Scissorman _is_ real, and hopefully dead to boot."

"Did you want me to come with?"

"No, someone needs to stay behind and make sure Leanne's okay until we can tie up these loose ends."

"You be careful if you go back there, David Carter."

"Yeah, and you take care of the two of you, just in case he _is _still alive," he insisted, "I love you, Alana."

"And I love you!" she told him, blowing a kiss down the phone to him, before dropping it back into its cradle.

It sucked knowing that he was going to be out of contact until he got back from the orphanage, but there hadn't been any cellular signal for a month now. The sooner they got the mast fixed, the better. She turned to leave the backroom and saw a familiar head of red hair moving between the desks towards her. Smiling, Alana let herself out of the room and waved to Leanne as she approached.

"Hey, girlie!" she greeted, any previous frustration having vanished completely from both her voice and her bearing, "what's up?"

"Not much," her charge and current roommate responded, digging her hands into the pockets of her jeans, "it was quiet at home, so I decided to come for a walk."

"Didn't have any trouble with the reporter scum, did you?"

"No, it was fine, really. It's a nice day outside."

"We should go out walking together then," the older woman suggested with a smile, before her face turned serious again, "do you still have the thing I gave you?"

Leanne nodded, taking the object out of her pocket and holding it out for her guardian to see. It was a black stiletto flick-knife that Alana had found and taken possession of during one of her seminars. One of the girls she tutored had obviously been carrying it, hopefully for self-defence purposes, and had left it behind. She hadn't thought it very sensible to leave a blade lying around, so she'd taken it. She'd used it as a bribe to convince the girl to stay with her in the first place, telling her that even she wouldn't be able to mess with her so long as she kept it close. It had been a gesture of trust, and she liked to think that it had helped to put her at ease.

But it was more than that. Dave had told her that most of the cops at the precinct didn't believe in the Scissorman, but she believed, and she never wanted her young guest to be defenceless against a monster like that again.

"You just keep that safe, okay?" she said, moving to close the girl's fingers around the weapon, only for her to jerk her hand away, "oh! Sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. It's just..."

"Seriously, sweetie, don't you do _any_ apologising," Alana cut in, resisting the urge to ruffle her hair, "if your reactions are that quick then you shouldn't have any problem taking care of yourself. Just do me one favour."

"Uhm, sure," she agreed, tucking the knife into her own pocket, "what's that?"

"Don't tell Dave I gave that to you."

-x-x-x-x-x-

Carter had never had much time or patience for the press. The majority of his colleagues looked upon them as an occupational hazard, at best, but none of them seemed to dislike them as thoroughly as he did. He'd heard that some officers saw journalists as an opportunity for fame, as a tool to help in their cases, or as a way to make some quick money, giving out unofficial tips for cash bribes. Fortunately for themselves, these people were smart enough to keep those views quiet when he was around.

The front of the station had been swarming with photographers and cameramen from various news channels for the past two weeks, all of them eager to chronicle the horrifying Clock Tower Killings. Reporters had come from every corner of the country to get a piece of the most sensational story in Greenville history. And when it came down to it, that was all it was to them - a story.

That was probably the main reason that Carter hated reporters as much as he did. Normal people didn't reduce everything to viewing statistics and sales figures; it took a special kind of scum to look at a dead body and think "_ratings_". The press were leeches, clinging to society's underbelly, sucking away whatever they could, oblivious to the dirt they were wallowing in. Thirty-five dead kids, two more irreparably damaged, and all they saw was the headline it would make.

Sometimes the most brutal part of human nature was how it could so readily ignore a tragedy when there was profit to be made.

He took the back door out into the parking lot, where his car was waiting. If he was going to get the second victim's statement, and maybe overturn the Chief's decision to close the case, then he would have to be quick. Alana had suggested a while back that he take copies of his case files, just in case he needed them. That advice had never been as useful as it was now. All the information about the boy and the Granite Orphanage, where he was now staying, was waiting for him at her apartment.

Unfortunately, the moment he stepped out into the fading sunlight, someone thrust a tape recorder under his nose.

"Care to make a statement for the evening edition, Detective?" a woman's voice said, before he could react.

"No comment," he snapped reflexively, before his eyes took in the blonde female standing behind the Dictaphone, "damn it, Angela, get that thing out of my face."

"No inside information to share with an old friend, David?" Angela Leavantis asked him, hurrying to follow as he swept the recorder aside and strode past her towards his car.

"Friend?" he grunted, turning to glance back at her as he searched for his keys in his inside jacket pocket, "is _that_ what you call it?"

"Hey, I turned you into a local celebrity."

"You made me look like an idiot."

"My story made you a detective."

"Just drop it, Angela," he insisted, turning away and unlocking the door of his vehicle, "if you want to know what's happening then you'll have to wait for Weaver's statement, just like everyone else."

"You're in a bad mood," she observed, but she obviously wasn't about to let that stop her from landing her story, "does that have anything to do with the Chief's decision to close the Clock Tower case? Odd that he'd do that when it conflicts with the only witness's statement."

That surprised him. He wasn't sure how she had managed to discover that the case had been closed, considering that he himself had only been told less than a half hour ago, but he was suitably impressed. That didn't change the fact that she was still just a reporter, and he was determined not to give her anything. He reined in his incredulity and said the only thing he possibly could say in that situation, keeping his voice as flat as possible.

"No. Comment."

"If you have a difference of opinion from the department's official stance, we'd be happy to represent your side of the story," another voice chimed in, and he turned to see a girl who looked to be in her late teens standing beside Angela. She'd probably been there the whole time, but Carter had been so preoccupied that he hadn't noticed.

"And you are?" he asked, pausing for a few moments, the door of his car standing open and his right foot itching to carry him into the driver's seat.

"Alka Kunnas," she replied, her voice enthusiastically professional, "I work at the Herald..."

"She's a college student," the other woman interrupted, much to her fellow blonde's displeasure, "she's working as a temp at the office. I thought it would be good experience for her to see how a reporter works in the field."

"Is that right?" he said, folding his arms over his chest and smirking, "well, if you want my advice, find another mentor."

With that, he slid into his car and pulled the door shut with a slam of finality, starting the engine and rolling out of the precinct's lot. The reporter and her protégé watched him leave, both of them with mouths agape. After a few moments, Alka's incredulous expression curled up into a mischievous smile, and she shot a sidelong glance at the veteran journalist standing beside her.

"Making friends and influencing people?"

"Oh shut up."

-x-x-x-x-x-


	3. Scenario One In The House In A Heartbeat

**Scenario One:**** In The House, In A Heartbeat**

The Granite Orphanage was much as he'd expected - an austere, grey, dreary building on a winding, nameless thoroughfare in the middle of nowhere, miles from Greenville's city limits. He pulled his car over onto the strip of asphalt that lay between the tall stone wall that bordered the building, and the road, stopping in front of the wrought iron gate. He glanced up at the four-story structure, feeling glad that he'd had parents, and good ones at that. It was a daunting yet dismal place, eerily similar to photographs he had seen of the Barrows Mansion, in both appearance and isolated locale, sans the latter's infamous clock tower.

He could understand now why Leanne hadn't wanted to go back there - apart from the fact that they'd almost sent her to her death, of course.

He stepped out of the car, grabbing the radio handset from the glove box. With the cell phone mast still out of commission, all departmental staff were required to carry a radio with them at all times. It was especially important on visits like this, though admittedly this wasn't an officially sanctioned trip. Technically, he was disobeying orders simply by being here. Even if he could find a way to keep the case open, he was still looking at a suspension, or worse, for his trouble. And if he lost his job, he wasn't sure what he'd do. It and Alana were the two things in his life that he truly loved, and he didn't want to think about losing either one.

Not only that, but he didn't know how cooperative the people at the orphanage would be. The police investigation had brought them a lot of unwanted attention from the Child Protection Service. He'd heard that five of the twenty orphanages in the state who had unwittingly contributed to Mary's killing spree had already been shut down for improper practices. This place hadn't suffered that fate, but they'd still received a knuckle-rapping from the C.P.S, all the same.

Such a public embarrassment was likely to make them less than reasonable when it came to helping him prolong the case.

In truth, he wasn't sure how much help the boy would be either. He'd done nothing but cry and call for his mother the entire twenty-four hours they'd had him at the station, and then C.P.S had whisked him away the next day. If he knew anything - particularly anything that would help in Carter's personal quest - then that was still to be seen.

He pushed through the front gate, which gave a loud, grating creak of protest, and into the building's courtyard, gravel crunching underfoot. An old swing set and climbing frame stood at the centre of the yard, faded paint chipping from its metal bars. It didn't look particularly inviting as far as play areas went, but he imagined orphans made do with what little they had. The front of the house was in a similar state of disrepair, faded and ancient. Birds whistled and screeched in the treetops all around. The place hovered somewhere between tranquil and unpleasant.

Back in the forties it had been a hotel, he'd read, owned by a man with grand ambitions, but Greenville's slow development had driven it into the ground in less than four years. Instead, they'd turned it into an orphanage, and now there were over thirty kids, and seven staff members, living there, all paid for by the state. The budget, it seemed, didn't extend to plaster and paint.

The place was strangely quiet. Then again, he imagined that since the C.P.S had put the fear of God into the caretakers, the children probably weren't even allowed in the yard anymore for fear that they might be snatched away.

The red front door, peeling and splintering from years of wind and rain, rattled in its frame when he knocked. When no one answered, he knocked again, then pressed the doorbell. He heard the sound of it ringing elsewhere in the house, but still there was no response.

He stepped back, scanning the building's front windows, and then cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice sounding abominably loud in the near-silence. A flock of birds fled the shelter of a nearby tree at the noise.

After a few moments of waiting, watching for any sign of life, he turned towards the passage that led around to the back of the building. There wasn't much to the yard at the rear, other than a wall littered with chalk drawings and children's handprints. A utility shed had been built onto the back of the orphanage, clearly not a remnant of its hotel years, made of wood and thick, corrugated plastic.

He banged on the back door, and then stepped back again. It occurred to him that everyone might have been out, that maybe they'd arranged some impromptu field trip for today. Then again, with the C.P.S's doom hanging over them, he doubted it. He was beginning to err somewhere between impatient and concerned. He really couldn't afford to waste time standing around while his boss was busy making what might have been the biggest mistake of his entire career. At the same time, the lack of response was making him nervous. Surely someone should have answered by now.

"Hello?"

Dave leapt practically out of his skin, the sudden voice from behind the door making his heart skip a beat, a muttered curse escaping his lips.

"H-hello?" the person, a woman, asked again, a quiver of panic in her half-whispered words as the vague shape of her face appeared in the oval of distorted glass set at eye-level, "is someone there?"

"Yeah, me, I'm here," he said quickly, stepping up to the door, keeping his own tone low to match her own, "Detective Carter with the Greenville Police Department. Is something wrong, miss?"

"Oh thank God," she breathed, and he could tell immediately that she was crying, "please; you have to get me out of here. I was hiding here; I didn't know what else to do. He probably heard you knocking. Quick - he'll be here any second."

He tried the door handle, but it refused to budge. It was locked. "This thing isn't opening. Is there a key or something somewhere?" he asked her, before pausing, furrowing his brow, "wait, what do you mean _"he"_?"

"No, no, there has to be a way to open it; please," she begged, voice tight with panic, ignoring his question completely, before there was a clatter from somewhere deeper in the house, "oh no. He's coming back! Please. Please! Open the door! Quick!"

The blind terror in her voice rang true, even if nothing she was saying made sense to him. Suddenly, he felt his own urgency growing. He had to get her out; questions could wait until later.

"Alright, get back! I'll kick the door in!" he told her, wishing that he was as confident as he sounded.

"I-I c-can't!" she stammered, hysteria rising, "I c-can't! He's..."

Whatever she had been about to say, she wasn't given the chance to say it.

Her words died in a strangled gurgle, and then the tip of a metal blade, slick with gore, burst through the door in front of him. He let out a wordless cry of horror, leaping backwards as the bloodied point came inches from his belly. He clamped his hand over his mouth, aghast, as the woman gave a breathless cry of pain. She coughed, crimson appearing on the pane of warped glass in front of her face, and then the weapon impaling her withdrew, forcing a choked shriek from the red blur of her lips. He heard her blood spatter across the tiled floor behind the door and he stood, paralysed with shock, as she was stabbed through for a second time, and then a third.

He watched dumbly as the blade vanished, as the sound of the woman's body slumping to the slick floor echoed in his mind. Then, incredulous, hardly able to believe what he was seeing, he fumbled for his radio and gun, almost dropping both when his hands wouldn't stop trembling. With his entire body quivering, making him feel like he was going to vomit, he ran back to the front of the house, spewing horrified curses.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Barely able to keep his voice steady, Carter called for back-up. In an hour, maybe less, the Granite Orphanage would be swarming with cops, but in those sixty minutes, more people might die. Right now, he was the only person on hand with the means to stop that from happening. Acting on instinct, the same instinct that had driven him to chase a wanted murderer through the Greenville streets, he stepped up to the front door and, eventually, managed to kick it open.

Then, clasping his semi-automatic pistol in his trembling, sweat-slick hands, he ventured inside.

His stomach lurched as he stepped over the threshold. The entrance hall looked just like any other, complete with an umbrella stand, a dirt-streaked welcome mat and a closet for coats. He tried the closet, just to be sure, and found that it was empty, save the various jackets he had expected to find. There was no child hiding amid the shoes, and no crazed murderer waiting for him to turn his back. With that, he started looking for the back door. He wanted to see with his own eyes what had happened to the woman there.

He picked his way through the old corridors with their faded wallpaper and threadbare carpeting, tensing at every creak of a board and every low groan of the wind. The building was hardly a comforting place to be as it was, but the looming fear of what might lurk behind every corner, of what might be hidden in every room, made it so much more daunting. He pushed on, until he reached the conservatory at the very rear of the house.

The first thing he noticed was the pool of blood by the door, and the crimson staining its surface. Three familiar puncture marks had been made in the wood. This was obviously where the woman had died, but there was no sign of her body. Instead, a red streak led away towards the back of the room. For a moment, he dared to hope that she had crawled into the corner, that she might still be alive, if badly wounded. He followed the trail, past baskets stacked with dirty children's clothes, to a washing machine and dryer standing on a sturdy shelf at the deepest part of the room.

The washer's door was open, a gore-slick arm draped over the rim. Inside was the woman, her corpse contorted grotesquely, her legs broken and bent in on themselves, her spine curved further than should have been possible, her neck twisted at a bizarre angle. Her wide, glassy eyes stared at Dave, her bloody mouth open in a slack, gaping expression of horror.

The sight was enough to turn his uneasiness into full-blown nausea, and he vomited into the drain at the corner of the room, propping himself up against the wall.

He was still groaning and blinking tears out of his watery eyes when he heard a clatter behind him. Spinning around, he found himself face-to-face with the killer, a character he had become all too familiar with in the past fortnight. It stood hunched beneath its cowl, a ghoulish death mask plastered across its face, a pair of razor sharp scissors gripped in its gnarled hands. The Scissorman.

"You're not real," he breathed, backing away as it stepped towards him, tilting its head, almost like it was curious, "_you're not fucking real!_"

He swung his pistol around, pulling the trigger before the monster could come any closer. Its weapon came up in an arc, the sharp edge of one of the blades knocking the gun from his hand and slashing deeply into his palm. It lunged towards him, trying to impale him through the abdomen, but he dodged wildly to the side, kicking it in its flank and sending it careening into the bloody washer. It lashed out at him again, but he grabbed the nearest thing to hand, a basket of clothing, and hurled it into the creature's face.

Then he ran, out of the conservatory, back into the corridors, down one, then another, forgetting the way to the front door, losing sight of any objective but survival. All the while, he heard the snapping of the hideous scissors behind him, the noise almost eager, desperate to spill his blood. He tripped on a loose piece of carpet, stumbling but managing to hold himself upright, and then dove into a nearby closet, throwing open the door and darting inside.

He stood amid the racks of warm towels, listening to the hammering of his own pounding heart, keeping his uninjured hand clamped over his mouth as he tried desperately not to make a sound. In the other, he clutched one of the towels, the material quickly soaking up blood and turning red. After a few moments, he heard footsteps, and then the shadow of the Scissorman passed by outside his hiding place. He watched it lift the blades, watched as their silhouette fell across the doors in front of him, watched them creak open painfully slowly, and then snap closed.

He recoiled, colliding with an array of pipes at the deepest part of the closet, valves and bolts digging into his spine. His surprise was swallowed by sudden pain as the heat from the cylinders burnt his back. He almost leapt forward, completely through instinct, but he knew that even the slightest sound would make him a dead man. He kept his body where it was through sheer desperation, letting the copper rods press into his reverse, feeling as hot as branding irons. The stifled cry of agony caught in his throat, even as his wide eyes took in the stooped shape standing outside.

It cocked its head once again, listening for him, and then it turned and walked away.

He stayed where he was for a moment longer, not even allowing himself to breathe a sigh of relief until he was sure that the danger had passed. Then, he jumped forward, his back feeling like it was on fire, and pressed his fist between his teeth, biting his own knuckles. Tears swelled in his eyes, before he let out a shaky breath, hissing out curses. He honestly didn't think he had ever felt anything quite as painful as that in his life before. It had been nothing short of a miracle that he'd been able to keep quiet.

Trembling with adrenaline, he sank to the floor, letting his head fall into his hands, trying not to sob too loudly whenever the noise came unbidden from his mouth. He tried to think about what to do, but his mind was a disarray. He felt numb and empty. If he hadn't already thrown up, he'd probably have done so right there and then. But no matter how hard he tried to think of a way out of this situation, his thoughts kept returning to the same thing.

_The gun, _he thought, _I need the gun._

-x-x-x-x-x-

Unfortunately, finding the gun was no easy task. In his blind flight through the orphanage, he'd lost his bearings completely. The sprawling building was a mess of corridors attached to rooms attached to more corridors, and he couldn't remember which ones he'd run through and which ones he hadn't. Once he had bound up his wound, he left the closet and did the only logical thing. He moved in one direction until he could go no further; then he picked another direction and did the same. Eventually, he knew, he'd have to reach a door that would take him outside, and from there he could find the back door, the utility shed, and his weapon.

Once he had that, he could stop this nightmare from going any further.

He was midway along one likely looking corridor when he heard a noise that made him freeze. It took him a moment to realise what he was listening to, his brain processing the sound slower than his body reacted. It was laughter - children's laughter - quiet, almost completely indistinguishable. He looked around and saw a nearby doorway standing partly ajar. When he approached, he realised that the voices were coming from inside.

He pressed the door open slowly, stepping gingerly into the dark recesses of the room. It didn't take him long to figure out what he'd been hearing. The only source of light in the entire chamber was the flickering, multi-coloured images on the television set, which was showing cartoon reruns. The volume was turned down so low that it was practically muted, but he could still hear the joy of the children on the screen. He let out a relieved breath, and then turned his eyes to the sofa opposite the box.

What he saw there made him jump backwards into the wall, a startled and horrified cry escaping his lips before he could get his hand over them. Positioned in a line on the couch were four children, each around eleven or twelve years old, two girls and two boys, and all of them dead. A ragged slash ran across their throats, as though they had been killed in a single stroke from the dreaded scissors. Blood stained their clothing and ran down off their seat, pooling on the floor. The flickering images in front of them reflected in their glazed eyes.

Gaping, he continued to stare for a few more seconds, and then something happened that made his heart leap into his throat. The television started to blare, children's laughter filling the room, growing to almost ear-splitting volume. He glanced down and found that, in his shock, he'd stood on the remote control.

"Oh shit!" he yelled, bolting out into the passage and barrelling down the corridor, no longer caring how much noise he made.

That was when a door ahead burst open, the Scissorman leaping out in front of him, bringing its weapon up and snapping the blades shut menacingly.

Letting out another curse, he skidded to a stop, almost falling over in his haste to turn, and then fled back down the corridor. He tried to think about where he could go, but his knowledge of the building's geography hadn't improved, despite the past few minutes he'd spent wandering around in it. Instead, he just ran, ducking through rooms, overturning furniture, anything to give himself the lead he needed to escape.

Eventually, what little luck he'd been gifted with thus far ran out, and he threw open a door, only to find himself teetering on the top steps of a long flight of stairs. He let out a strangled grunt of panic, flailing, snatching for the doorknob in order to stop himself from pitching headlong into the dark abyss of the building's basement. His sweat-slick hand seized the brass handle, even as the other gripped the wooden rail, and he managed to bring himself under control.

He didn't have long to consider how close he'd come to breaking his neck, however. Hearing the Scissorman somewhere behind him, he bolted down the stairs. Without even bothering to search for a light switch, he felt his way around the foot of the steps and ducked underneath. Then, he held his breath, waiting for his stalker to follow. He locked his eyes on the gap between the wooden planks in front of him, a plan forming in his brain. The moment the killer set foot there, he was going to grab it by the ankle, send it toppling to the concrete at the bottom.

And then he would finish it off.

He heard footsteps above, the creak of old, dusty boards. Splinters and grit and dead spiders rained down over him. His heart hammered in his ears, cold sweat prickling his back. He ignored it all, mind focused on what he needed to do to survive. There was a dull thump as the monster took its first step on the basement stairs.

A door slammed somewhere in the distance. The Scissorman stopped its descent, turned on its heel, and thundered back to the top of the staircase. Dave's eyes widened as he cast around for some way to bring the killer back after him, desperate to stop it from chasing whichever poor soul had caught its attention now. That was when he heard the thunderous bang of the basement entrance swinging shut, and the gentle click of a lock.

The murderer knew he was there, hiding in the darkness, and it was going to keep him there while it finished off all the other survivors in the house. Then, it would probably come back, to do the same to him.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Part of him wanted to simply wait for the Scissorman at the top of the stairs, clutching the broken chair leg he had found like a bat, and club the deformed freak over the head when it came back. But even as he considered the idea, he knew he couldn't do it. Not that killing a child-murderer would have been too difficult for him; in fact, the prospect was looking like quite a good one at that juncture. It was the fact that, by waiting, he would be condemning any other people still alive in the building to a brutal and gory demise.

He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he chose to let that happen. Unfortunately, the door that lead to the ground floor was locked tight and wouldn't budge. A quick inspection of the rest of the basement, for some kind of window or other aperture he could use to escape, turned up a strange discovery. Past the pile of trashed furniture, where he had located his new weapon, was what looked to be an elevator, the kind with the iron lattice barring the door. He pulled back the gate and stepped inside the compartment.

It had probably been luxurious once, with carpeting on the floor and a polished brass panel on the wall indicating all the floor numbers. Now, however, the entire box was covered in a thick layer of dust that made his nose itch just looking at it, and the metal fittings were tarnished and grimy. All the same, it looked quite secure. Elevators were built to last, regardless of whether they got regular safety inspections, and the building was stable enough to support it, even if it had been out of use for the better part of six decades.

Hoping that it was still powered, he dragged the lattice back into place and, for want of a better place to start, pressed the button for the top floor. Nothing happened for a moment, and he jabbed the button again, wondering if this was going to turn out to be a bust too. Then the whole compartment lurched and steadily began to climb. Breathing heavily, about as frightened by the slow, awkward ascent as he was by the Scissorman, he stood and waited for it to end.

The first floor passed by, nothing but a brick wall in place of the door, and it occurred to him that the elevator might have been sealed off on all the other floors. He let out a curse and kicked the wall, which rocked the car and made him promise himself that he would never do that again. When the second floor passed, greeting him with yet another brick wall, he crossed his fingers, muttering "come on" under his breath, over and over like a mantra.

The third floor was similarly blocked, leaving him with only one possible exit from the climb, otherwise he would have to go back down and try the door again. He already knew that wasn't going to work. He felt his heart leap as the next level came into view, a rusted iron gate barring the opening rather than the bricks he had feared. He tapped his feet, muttering still, waiting for the lift to stop so that he could climb out safely and continue his search of the building.

The entrance to the upper floor was halfway in view when the elevator came to a shuddering, rattling stop, the clunky mechanisms grinding to a halt. The car dangled, suspended over an unforgiving plunge, the only sounds in the darkness his frightened breathing and the creaking of the cable overhead that held him aloft. He fumbled for the controls, thumbing the button for the top floor, but nothing happened.

That was when something buffeted the compartment, causing it to shake. Dust cascaded down over the top of him, turning his black suit jacket almost grey, and he peered up through a hole in the ceiling, where a panel had been pried away long ago. Above, a shaft of light shone in through a hatch, probably connected to the building's attic. Leaning through the hole was the Scissorman, its blades clamped around the steel cables, their sharpened edges scraping back and forth, each motion shaking loose sparks that illuminated its horrifying mask.

Letting out a terrified curse, Dave grabbed the lattice and wrenched it aside, pulling himself up onto the shelf created by the doorway to the fourth floor. Breathing hard, his entire body shaking, he managed to drag his legs free of the elevator, just as the wire gave way, sending the lift plunging, screaming, roaring, into the abyss, the severed line trailing in its wake. It crashed in the darkness below, sending a plume of dust up towards him, and he turned his head away, burying his mouth and nose in the inside of his jacket.

Above, the shadow of the killer loomed over him, the light from above glinting on the wicked edges of its weapon, and then it disappeared from sight.

Coughing and groaning to himself, the blond tried to pull aside the gate separating him from the upper level. It was chained and padlocked in place, but eventually he was able to create a gap large enough for him to crawl through. The metal scraped his bare flesh until it bled, and even ripped several of the buttons from his suit, but he managed to wriggle out, collapsing weakly on the threadbare carpet.

He lay for a moment, breathing heavily, and then picked himself up, wondering where he could possibly go next, knowing that the Scissorman would soon be coming for him.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The top floor of the orphanage belonged to the older children. Once they reached a certain age - fourteen seemed to be the year of choice - they were given a room of their own up here, no doubt to afford them more privacy during their adolescent phase. Dave had searched several of the rooms in the hope that someone might have chosen one as a hiding place, but the best he could hope for, it seemed, was that they were empty.

On the rare occasion that he found one that was occupied, it was never a positive discovery.

He had acquired another weapon, this one a baseball bat from one of the private bedrooms. It was probably the best he was going to find, given that his sidearm was now all-but lost. Unfortunately, it was still covered in the blood of its previous owner, a girl who had probably had blonde hair before a blow to the head had split her skull open like an egg. Seeing her sitting on the chair at her desk, surrounded by pictures of herself alongside smiling and laughing friends, was enough to make him feel like he was going to be sick all over again.

The place seemed devoid of life, and he was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had been too late from the very beginning, if all the people here had been dead before he had even arrived. He felt frustrated, like he wanted to hit something with his bat, and hard. Part of him wished the Scissorman would make his grand reappearance, thinking that he would be the best target. The rest of him was terrified of running into the killer again, knowing it might well be the last thing he ever did.

Leanne's description of the monster that had butchered her friends had made him sound like something inhuman. Now, faced with the same stalker, he began to see why she feared him so much.

Determined to investigate as thoroughly as he could, he pushed open the next door along the corridor, poking his head inside to see what he could find. This room was unlike the others. It wasn't full of what meagre possessions the children possessed, nor was it completely empty, awaiting its next resident. The beds had been stripped, so no one had been sleeping there, but some personal possessions remained - photographs pinned to the corkboard on the wall and stuck to the desk, clothes piled on the chair. This was enough to make him curious.

It didn't take him long to figure out whose room it had once been. The pictures were of the same group of girls in varying combinations, but the one who appeared in most of them was one he recognised. It was Leanne Rosier. Beside her stood her friends, a blonde, a brunette, a redhead and a dark-haired girl, all of whom he had seen before, but only as corpses in a pathologist's reports. Laura, Anne, Lotte and Jennifer - they were the final victims of the Clock Tower Killings.

It was no wonder that the survivor had decided not to take those photos with her when she had moved out.

Looking at them, he felt a knot of turmoil tying itself in his gut. He hated the fact that more people had died at the hands of that self-same murderer - or a copycat, at least. He hated the fact that he had been powerless to stop it. And he hated the fact that he would probably be powerless to end it here. He reminded himself to apologise to her, if he survived.

That was when he noticed something else, an item on the desk that didn't look like a trinket or keepsake that the redhead would have owned. It was a doll's head, crudely cut away from its body. It had hair the same colour as Leanne's. He left it where it was, not wanting to disturb any forensic evidence the C.S.I team might have been able to find. It was a message, he was sure. Now he was more certain than ever that this was the same killer, and that it had come here looking for the victim that had escaped it. It hadn't found her here, but that wouldn't stop it.

He ran back out into the hall, praying that the reinforcements he had radioed for would arrive soon.

He had only gone a few steps when the ceiling collapsed above him, a dark shape wielding an immense pair of scissors dropping to the floor right in front of him. It took him a moment to realise that it wasn't the ceiling that had collapsed at all, but the stairway to the attic. All the same, the effect was no different. He leapt back with a scream, the murderer advancing with menace.

Except this time, Dave didn't run away. He clenched teeth, tightening his grip around the bat, and swung. The hunched figure leapt back, retreating as the ferocious swipe brought the length of veneered wood, which it had used to smash in the head of an innocent girl, within inches of its masked face. It dodged away again as he lashed out a second time, and then a third. As he made to hammer it for a fourth time, it snapped its scissors shut, chopping the club in half with a crack of splintering wood.

"Shit!" he cried, before rearing back and hurling the broken handle of his now-defunct weapon at the monster.

It simply swept the stub of wood aside, and this time he did run, racing back along the corridor and turning a quick left onto another, as his unstoppable pursuer gave chase. The hall opened out into a stairway further along, and he darted for it, hurrying down the stairs before the Scissorman could follow. He threw open the first door he came to, and found himself in what looked like one of the dormitories for the younger children. Two dozen beds were ranked in a pair of parallel lines stretching through a chamber that had once been several smaller rooms. On some of the beds, hidden by bloodied sheets, were child-sized shapes.

He let out a groan of disbelief, counting no less than ten bodies in the few seconds he took to scan the room.

Then he turned and bolted back across the passage, ducking into another room, leaving the entrance to the other wide open. It didn't take him long to realise that he was in a bathroom. It also didn't take him long to find the corpse of yet another orphan, a young girl floating face-down in the bloody bathtub, her white dress soaked in diluted gore, drifting around her still form like a kind of pale aura. There was a heavy thud from outside, like something falling from a great height, and he realised that his pursuer had leapt the balcony to the lower level rather than take the stairs. He began to wonder what kind of man he was facing, if it were truly a man at all.

He moved into the toilet cubicle, finding it mercifully empty, and climbed atop the seat. He left the door unlocked, knowing that the Scissorman would know where he was hiding if he didn't. Fortunately, it swung shut naturally, keeping him hidden from the rest of the room.

Sure enough, after a few moments of practically holding his breath, the killer followed him inside. His heart thundered in his chest as he once again found himself hiding only feet away from the psychotic who was chasing him. He could hear the monster moving, shuffling, breathing heavily, outside. Then, there was a wet smack as something heavy and damp hit the floor. Water rolled under the bottom of the cubicle. He heard the door to the bathroom creak open, the sound of something slithering across the tiles, and then the door falling closed again. Then, silence.

After a few moments of waiting, for safety's sake, Dave gripped the top of the cubicle's wall and peered over. A bloody streak led from the bathtub to the only exit. The girl's corpse was gone.

That was when he realised that the Scissorman was rounding up his victims, counting them, making sure he got every last soul in the building.

He wanted to kill them all, whether his true target was Leanne or not.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The Granite Orphanage housed over thirty children and seven members of staff. Most of those individuals, Dave now knew to be dead. If he didn't want to join them, he knew he needed to escape, and soon. Every moment longer he remained in the building was just another opportunity for the Scissorman to catch him off guard and skewer him. In truth, he was running out of places to search that the killer had not already beaten him to. The rational part of his mind was telling him to get out while he still could, that the orphanage was a bust through and through.

But he owed it to the children and their minders, the ones who might still be alive, and to himself, to keep searching. If he turned and ran, without at least trying to save them, then he would never be able to look at himself in the mirror, or look Alana in the eye, ever again.

He waited for the murderer to move on before slipping out of the bathroom. The upper floor was devoid of life; he was fairly certain of that. He also thought he had heard the monster moving upstairs anyway, making that area a dangerous one. He went in the opposite direction, down to the level below, the only one thus far that he hadn't investigated.

At the bottom of the steps that led down, he found a door that opened onto the second dormitory. This one was like the other, filled with bodies hidden by gore-streaked shrouds. He allowed himself a soft curse and then walked along the corridor, hoping to have better luck in one of the other rooms. As he approached the corner, however, he heard a voice.

"Miss Klein?" it asked, a trembling, young voice, a little girl sobbing, pleading, begging for an answer, "Miss Klein, wake up."

He moved quietly to the corner so as not to startle the child and whoever was with her, but when he peered around the wall, he blanched at the grim sight he beheld. The girl, no older than eleven or twelve, wearing a blue cotton dress, stood over the prone body of a woman, the child's small hands clutching tightly at the pale fingers of the adult. Unfortunately, Miss Klein's head was resting several feet away, a look of perpetual horror on her face. When he looked closer, he realised that the frightened girl's eyes were milky white, filmed with blood that ran down her cheeks, mingling with her tears. She was blind.

He moved out from behind the corner and into the corridor, walking softly towards her.

"Hey, excuse me," he whispered, speaking as loudly as he dared, "don't be scared. I'm a police officer."

The girl cringed away as he spoke, but as she listened to what he said, she stood still, staring in his direction with her unseeing eyes. She didn't try to run away. That was a start, at least.

"What happened to you?" he asked her, coming to stand in front of her, making sure to keep his footsteps audible for her benefit, though he had quickly gotten used to creeping recently, "are you hurt?"

"No," she said, shaking her head, "Miss Klein said the bad man wouldn't get me if I stayed close to her. She said she heard him coming and hid me in the closet."

She pointed to illustrate her point, missing the closet by a full three feet.

"She was fighting with him; I seen it through the door. She grabbed his face and pulled it off, and he had another face underneath, but ... I couldn't see it properly. It made my eyes hurt to look and then..."

She swallowed hard, looking up at him, or as close to him as she could manage, more tears beading in her blinded eyes as she spoke again, this time in a whisper.

"Please tell Miss Klein to wake up."

Something in the region of his chest started to hurt; he imagined this was probably what people meant by heartbreak. He put his hands under her arms and lifted her up. She didn't resist, though she didn't release the dead woman's hand until she had no choice.

"Don't worry; she'll be safe here," he told her, hating himself for lying even as he did it, "but right now I need to get you out of the house. The bad man might be coming back. Miss Klein wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you, so I'm going to take you outside, okay?"

She nodded silently, even as he nestled her in the crook of his arm. She felt light and fragile, as though she were a doll made of finest porcelain. Dave had always hated it when people gave him their kids to hold, primarily because they were ugly, smelly, loud little bastards, but also because he wasn't a natural parent. He was always paranoid that he was going to break them, and now was no exception.

Unfortunately, he heard something move in the corridor behind him, and realised that they had company.

"Shit," he grunted, ducking into the closet where the little girl had been hiding and sliding the door closed quickly.

"That's a bad word," she whispered, and he clamped a palm over her lips, a little more roughly than he meant to. She fell silent, all the same, her bloody tears flowing over the back of his hand.

Moments later, the Scissorman stalked past, swinging its head from left to right, searching for more victims for its murderous games. It stopped to stab the unfortunate Miss Klein through the stomach, a disgraceful reward for her valiant efforts, and then kicked her decapitated cranium along the hall. Dave felt anger brewing in the pit of his stomach, nestled beside the lump of fear that was taking up most of the room, and had been ever since he had set foot in the building.

And then, just like that, the monster turned and walked away, having come to within mere inches of where he and the girl were hiding.

He let out a quiet breath, one that he hadn't even realised he had been holding, and whispered an apology into the girl's ear, letting go of her mouth. She placed a finger to her lips, completely of her own volition, and he wondered if maybe that was another thing to thank Miss Klein for.

He stepped out of the closet, looking both ways to make sure that he was safe to do so. He could see neither hide nor hair of his pursuer, however, nor could he hear any telltale noises that would give away its position. But when he strained his ears, he was sure he could make out a familiar sound, faint, distant, but growing ever closer - the sound of police sirens.

-x-x-x-x-x-

At first, he thought about running, throwing caution to the wind, taking the girl up in his arms and barrelling for the exit. Sense prevailed. He kept the girl cradled against his torso, and stayed on his feet, but otherwise he remained hidden inside the closet. When the G.P.D arrived, they would form a cordon around the building and search it floor by floor. He didn't need to move, and risk unwanted attention; he could just wait for them to find him.

He would have been quite content to wait like that indefinitely, but fate conspired against him.

After a couple of minutes, he thought he caught a faint whiff of smoke. Moments later, the orphanage's fire alarm went off, the bell clamouring loudly just outside of their hiding place. The girl clamped her hands over her ears, but remained silent. The stink of burning was stronger now, he realised. The rules of the game had changed; they couldn't afford to wait.

He pushed the doors open, letting the peel of warning bells cover the sound of his thunderous footsteps as he charged down the hallway, no longer caring if he was heard, but assuming that he wasn't. He rounded the corner, quickly scanning the next corridor, and when he saw that it was empty he kept running. The stairway was next, and he hurried quickly down the first flight of steps. The second was shorter, so he simply leapt down them, hitting the floor hard.

That was when a pair of scissors snapped shut behind him, the blades emerging from the space between the steps, closing around where his ankle would have been if he hadn't jumped.

"Fuck you!" he roared back at the killer, laughing incredulously, body quivering with shock and adrenaline, mind overcome with a sudden bout of manic elation, "fuck _you_!"

He ran on, kicking open doors that stood between him and his escape, aware that the monster was probably chasing him. Let it chase him, he thought; it wouldn't catch him. Even if the other cops hadn't arrived yet, he'd run all the way along that country road to meet them if he had too. Then it would be the Scissorman who ran.

Smoke was crawling across the ceiling by now, blackening the faded wallpaper. Part of the orphanage was properly ablaze.

A few moments later, he found himself staring through the open front door, the same one he had managed to kick through when he had first entered. He put on an extra burst of speed, pushing himself as hard as he could, clutching the sole survivor, other than himself, to his chest. Then, with his lungs burning, with his muscles aching, he emerged out into the dying sunlight, coughing and spluttering. With her face nestled in his jacket, the girl was protected from the smoke, but he felt like he was breathing through cotton wool, every gulp of oxygen he sucked in seeming shallow and worthless.

He dropped to his knees on the gravel, even as his eyes took in the two police officers standing at the building's front gate, holding it open as squad cars swerved into the courtyard from the road. Behind them came an ambulance, sirens blaring. Armed men disembarked from the first vehicles on the scene, running towards the building, hesitating when they saw the smoke rising from the windows. One was already using his radio to call for fire service support.

He sat back, sharp stones digging into his behind, but he didn't much care about that. The girl's head rested on his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck. As their rescuers crowded around them with medical equipment and weaponry, she whispered something in his ear that made him smile, more than any of those things ever could.

"You said a _really_ bad word."

-x-x-x-x-x-

"Follow the light left. Now right. Now up and down."

Dave did as he was instructed, watching the beam from the E.M.T's penlight as it shone into one of his eyes, then the other. Once he was finished, the medic gave a grunt of approval and tucked his torch back into his pocket.

"A little bit of shock, but otherwise you seem fine. You didn't hit your head at all, did you? Any trips or falls?"

"Plenty," he responded, "but no, I never hit my head."

"Alright then. Swing by the E.R. if you experience any dizzy spells, nausea, vomiting - could be indicative of a head trauma. I think that's pretty much all there is for now."

"What about the girl?" he asked, "how's she?"

"She'll make it, but..." the other man said, pausing as though he were searching for the right words, "it's odd. She told me that she could see fine before, but I've never seen blindness like this on anyone who didn't have it from birth. There's _no_ external damage to her eyes at all. It's like her eyes just ... stopped working. I'm at a loss to explain it, and the blood too. We'll have a specialist look at her when she gets to Greenville General. For now, she's stable and resting comfortably."

"Thanks," Dave replied, with a nod of gratitude, to which the E.M.T just shrugged, before moving around to the front of his ambulance.

The blond detective was sitting on the bonnet of a police cruiser at the building's gate, watching the smouldering ruin that had once been the Granite Orphanage in the dim evening light. The fire service had arrived too late to save much of the structure; most of it had been reduced completely to ashes. When they scoured the debris, they'd find in excess of thirty charred remains. It was a grim end to a grisly event.

The medic had bandaged the laceration on his palm, as well as a dozen other, smaller scratches, many of which he hadn't even noticed. Aside from that, and a myriad of new bruises, he was practically in perfect health. All the same, he felt unsettled and quietly fearful. It was too much to hope that the Scissorman had died in the blaze, too much to hope that this ordeal would end here. There would be no sleep that night, for any of them, that was for sure.

To make matters worse, he'd been told that Chief Weaver was on his way. He was dreading that conversation, and not just because it might well mean the end of his career in law enforcement. He was in increasing danger of losing all respect for the man in charge of the G.P.D over his pigheaded attitude towards the case. Even if he wasn't fired, or suspended, he'd probably quit if he couldn't get the other man to see reason.

A thousand different variations of the same dialogue played out in his head, as he tried to prepare himself for the battle of words that was still to come. Most of them didn't end well.

Even as he sat and waited, however, a cry went up from the rear of the torched house that caught his attention, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Survivors! We've got survivors here!"

He pushed himself off from the car, watching as a line of cops and firemen ran out from the side of the heap of blackened brick, flanking E.M.T's who wheeled two gurneys out into the open. Dave stood and watched as they bolted past, running for the remaining ambulances waiting just beyond the gate.

"Found them under the floor - some kind of old wine cellar," one of the officers told him, stopping to appraise him of the situation as the two stretchers, and the patients strapped to them, passed by.

One was a young man, nineteen, possibly twenty, too old to be an orphan, and only just old enough to be one of the caretakers. He had dark hair, his dirtied and bloodied face set in a frown of anguish, his brown eyes taking in the watching detective through a haze of pain as he was rushed by. The other was a boy, no older than ten, with blond hair in a tangled mess around his head, his own eyes shut serenely. Even with the oxygen mask obscuring his features, however, the detective realised that he recognised the child.

It was the same little boy who had cried himself hoarse in the police station's interview room - the same boy who, along with Leanne Rosier, had been one of only two survivors of the original Clock Tower Killings.

-x-x-x-x-x-


	4. Intermission Two: Survivors

**Intermission Two: Survivors**

Patience was not a virtue that one readily attributed to Alana Rayner. An inquisitive, yet pragmatic, mind; a stocky figure and natural aptitude for martial arts; a healthy reserve of common sense - these all numbered among her finer traits. But when it came to sitting and waiting for things to happen, the redhead was not going to be winning her country any medals, especially in times of crisis.

When she'd found out, by eavesdropping on the officers guarding her apartment, about the G.P.D's mass mobilisation to the Granite Orphanage - where Dave had gone - she had leapt promptly into action. Unfortunately, by the time she'd bundled Leanne into her car and driven the hour-long journey in just over thirty minutes, it was already over. The building was little more than a charred pile of rubble, bleeding smoke into the sky. For a moment, she felt her heart lurch painfully at the thought that her partner might still have been inside.

They stopped just outside the police cordon. Then the stout woman grabbed her charge by the wrist and, ignoring her insistence that she would stay in the car, dragged her out into the open air. They pushed through the mess of uniformed men, and the small contingent of reporters, unchallenged. Whether they recognised one of the two females, or just the dangerous gleam in the leader's eyes, she didn't know or care. Leanne periodically dug her heels in, but each delay only earned her an impatient growl that made her quickly rethink her reticence.

Focused as she was, her guardian didn't notice the tears in the younger female's eyes or the fear etched on her face as they drew nearer.

The sight of a familiar figure in the courtyard made Alana's tension melt away, however. Dave was standing in front of the blackened ruin, alive and - as far as she could see - well. The moment she saw him, she released the death grip on the girl's hand and ran over to the detective, leaping onto his back and wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a tight embrace. For his part, the blond leapt almost three feet off the ground and let out a yelp that pierced the air, even over the sounds of idling car engines, heavy machinery and chattering voices.

Several men nearby shot them withering looks, but she didn't even notice, so deep was her face pressed into the back of her beloved's suit jacket. To his credit, he calmed down quickly and turned to pull her close to his chest, where she stayed for quite some time.

"Are you okay?" she asked eventually, as they parted.

"I'm fine," he insisted, bringing his hand up to brush a loose lock of red hair out of her round face, "it could have been a lot worse, you know?"

He smiled as he spoke, but there was a grim look in his eye that made her tilt her head curiously. She spotted the bandage wrapped around his hand and seized upon it, placing a soft kiss on his palm. Then, still clutching his wrist, she dragged him closer to the building, and further from Leanne, so that they could speak privately.

At this distance, she could see that the damage to the building was absolute. It had been destroyed by the fire, leaving only charred bricks in heaps around jutting black beams, as though its flesh had sloughed from its skeleton. The only part of it that looked to be intact was a brass plaque that someone had wiped clean of ash after the fire, bolted to the wall beside the door. It read: "Granite Orphanage: A Kind House on a Kind Earth." Now, the words seemed sadly ironic.

"What happened anyway?" she whispered, keeping her voice low, "how did this place burn down?"

"It was him, Alana," Dave responded, gripping her hands tightly in his own and staring her straight in the eye, "the Scissorman."

The name registered in stages. At first, there was shock, her eyes opening wide, then horror, her mouth gaping, then confusion, her brow furrowing. All the while, she babbled her muddled thoughts, seeming to completely forget that they had stepped to the side so that they couldn't be heard. "He was _here_! Fuck me, he could have _killed_ you! I mean, are you sure it was the same guy from the Barrows Mansion and not a copycat or something? "

"Pretty sure," he insisted, glancing at the wound on his hand, which she stroked softly, "he looked exactly like she described him. Good news is, Weaver won't close the case now that we've got an active suspect, and eyewitnesses to the crime. We'll hunt this guy until we find him."

Alana shot him a suspicious glare. "Well, that's great, but what's the bad news?"

"The Chief said he wanted this under wraps until we have control of the situation," he offered, and she knew immediately that she wasn't going to like what he had to say, "he's getting the Fire Chief to write this up as an electrical fire, and I'm not allowed to tell anyone that isn't involved in the case about what happened. I'm risking my job just by telling you.

"We _are _involved in this case, Dave. If he's still alive then he'll be after Leanne, and that means we're _both_ targets too," she snapped, more angrily than she had wanted to, and she felt a flush of guilt when he blanched. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, lowering her voice again. "But thank you. I know it must be difficult to go against orders like that. I appreciate it"

"Don't worry about it," he said, waving her concerns away, "I'm not going to let you walk around oblivious while all this is happening."

"Unlike Weaver, who's going to leave the whole fucking city in the dark while a serial killer's lurking in the streets. Where _is_ he, anyway?"

She looked around at the various uniformed personnel swarming around the remains of the orphanage, trying to pick out a gruff, broad-shouldered Chief of Police among them. "Talking over Federal involvement with the Mayor," he told her, before putting his hands firmly on her shoulders and turning her to face him, "he's not here, Alana. You don't need to keep looking."

"I swear I'm going to kick him so hard in the balls that he'll be able to taste cum for a year."

"What's wrong with Leanne?" he asked then.

He was obviously looking for some way to change the topic, but it was enough to make her whirl around, body tensed for some kind of danger. Instead, she just saw the teenager standing where she had been before, her arms wrapped tightly around her own torso, staring distractedly at the burnt out husk that had once been her home.

"Sweetheart, what's the matter?" Alana asked as she approached, causing the girl to flinch as she was suddenly brought back to the real world.

"Nothing," she insisted quickly, before turning to look back at the orphanage, "I just want to go home, now, please."

Realisation dawned on the older woman, and suddenly the stab of shame she had felt when she had snapped at her boyfriend returned tenfold. "Aww, I'm sorry girlie. I ... fuck, I'm really sorry. Okay, let's go, in the car." She ushered her charge back towards the cordon, and she gratefully obeyed, turning away from the 'kind house' and towards her new home. Alana turned back to Dave. "You coming, darling?"

"Yeah..." he replied, nodding, though his tone sounded doubtful, and he earned himself the quizzical tilt of the head for a second time. He explained himself. "Weaver wants me to collect statements from the other survivors at Greenville General. I need to swing by there before I come home."

The redhead snorted. "Oh fuck that. Leave it for tomorrow."

"I can't," he insisted, "I want to have the eyewitness accounts of this fucker on record before I clock off tonight. I don't want to take anymore risks with this case."

"Okay, then, we'll come with you, right Leanne?" she asked, turning to call to the younger woman who had stopped to look back at them. She nodded, though Alana suspected it was more for the sake of being able to leave quicker than because she had heard the question. "You want to ride along with us so you don't have to drive anymore today? You can get a patrol car to bring you back here tomorrow, maybe?"

"Thanks, but I'll just follow you," he said, "frankly, if I _ever_ have to see this place again then it'll be too soon."

She nodded. Something told her that he wasn't the only one who felt that way right now.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The drive back to Greenville was spent in much the same way as their journey to the orphanage. Alana was stoically silent the entire time, focusing on the road and the multitude of thoughts her conversation with Dave had no doubt sparked. She hadn't said much, other than that Leanne's worst nightmares had come true, and that the Scissorman was back in her life. For her part, the girl remained equally quiet, but inside there was turmoil.

The fear had never really left her. It remained as a silent undercurrent, dogging her every movement, manifesting in fleeting glances over her shoulder and an inability to sleep with the light off. But now she felt it intensifying, tearing at the vestiges of her self-control, making her want to scream and beg and plead for it to be over. Part of her had hoped that she was insane, that the monster with the scissors really had been a hallucination, but now there was no doubt - the Scissorman was real, and after her.

She had no doubt that, had Dave been there, her guardian would have talked his ear off, but probably in hushed tones, difficult to make out over the engine noise. Then she'd have felt like a bitch for listening in on their private conversations - one of their many private conversations. Sometimes, when they shut themselves away in another room to be alone together, Leanne felt exceptionally isolated.

When they reached the hospital, Alana's boyfriend excused himself and went upstairs to find the other survivors of the Granite Orphanage. She could hardly believe that her former home, and all the people she had once known there, were now gone. It almost felt as though her stalker were trying to erase her life. If so, then her newest friends would be next. She couldn't bare the thought.

They waited for him in the building's main lobby. It was getting late. Visiting hours were over, and the only people left around were the receptionist, the noticeable security personnel watching every entrance and exit, and a couple of stragglers, including themselves. While the older woman entertained herself with a copy of 'The Hunchback of Notre-Dame' she had found in the glove box of her car, Leanne contemplated the merits of chocolate.

She had never had much of a sweet tooth. The other kids had spent what meagre allowances they had on treats whenever they could, but she had always liked to pick up lasting trinkets. They were something she could use to decorate her otherwise empty room, as well as mark the passing of her time at the orphanage. She had hoped that, one day, she'd be able to leave with her mementoes in a little box, to remind her of where she had come from and the people she might have to leave behind. Instead, she'd stayed there right up until her eighteenth birthday, when someone had adopted her with the sole intent of trying to kill her.

After that, she'd let the caretakers - her old minders - share her treasured keepsakes out among the other children, not wanting to see them, or the memories they conjured, anymore.

Now, however, she was sorely tempted by the various sweets on offer in the lobby's vending machines. Unfortunately, she was confronted with a dizzying selection of different ways to indulge, each looking more inviting than the last, and just didn't know which to choose. She had heard somewhere that chocolate was good for depression, so she definitely wanted something with that, but that didn't really narrow her options. Most of the items were full of chocolate - or sugar, at least - in some way or another.

She jabbed her finger randomly at something in the machine, resolving that she would pick that as her choice, then thought better of it and chose again. Just as she was about to make her third choice, someone spoke up from beside her.

"You never really appreciate vending machines until you're stuck eating hospital food," the person said, and she wheeled around to see a young man, maybe no older than twenty, standing next to her. He had an unruly mop of dark hair and was wearing a hospital gown, which marked him as a patient. He grinned sheepishly at her reaction. "Sorry. My name's Caleb Moore, but everyone just calls me Kay. You're not a prisoner - I mean, patient - here, then?"

Leanne shook her head, hoping that he wouldn't ask her to shake hands, just in case she freaked out and he went away thinking that she was some kind of psycho.

"Good for you," he continued, and she smiled as genuinely as she could to show that she'd found the joke funny, "no, I mean it. I keep telling them I'm fine, but they won't listen to me. They think I might have inhaled some smoke or something."

"Were you in a fire?" the redhead asked, wondering if there had been two blazes in the area recently.

"Yeah, the orphanage where I was working burned down," he told her, and she knew immediately that it was the very same place she had just come from, "there were only four survivors, I think."

"The Granite Orphanage? You worked there?"

He nodded, his affable smile taking on a strained look. "Not very long. I actually only started last week. Apparently, some official group said they needed to take on more staff to manage the number of kids they had there. They were all ... good kids, you know? I can't believe they're all gone, just like that."

He was silent, and she couldn't think of anything to say to fill the gap. It stood to reason that - if he had survived, just like she had - he felt the same way about those lost in the disaster. He glanced up at her, warm, chocolate-coloured eyes meeting her own steel grey gaze, and she looked away, flushing slightly.

"Don't I recognise you from somewhere?" he asked, and she felt a knot of dread tie itself in her stomach.

"Oh, I don't think so."

"No, I definitely do," he insisted, much to her chagrin, "you're Leanne, right? The girl who survived the Barrows Mansion? I've seen your picture around the orphanage. Miss Klein spoke about you a lot. I think you might have been her favourite... What's the matter?"

Leanne herself wasn't sure what the matter was, though she quickly realised just how much her face was burning, and noticed that she was scuffing her feet against the tiled floor self-consciously. She stopped herself from moving her feet by sheer force of will, but couldn't make her cheeks change colour.

"Nothing, it's just..."

She trailed off.

"Oh, right," he said, seeming to understand, "sorry, I guess you don't want to talk about it, huh? I guess I'd feel the same if it'd been me. I mean, you probably told everything you could to the police, and they're the only ones who _need _to know so... People just won't leave you alone to get on with your life, right?"

She nodded, wondering what she could say to change the topic. She thought back to the reason why she was here, the errand that her guardian's partner was currently chasing up. It occurred to her that she might be able to help. "Uhm, Dave ... I mean, Detective Carter said you were with the young boy who was found at the Barrows Mansion," she muttered, hoping he could hear her, as she loathed having to repeat herself, "is that true?"

"You mean Edward? Yeah, that's right. They wanted me to show him special attention, because he'd lost his memory."

"You mean, he doesn't remember anything?" she asked incredulously, "about the Clock Tower?"

"About anything," he replied, with a shrug, "he's almost a complete blank slate. He kept crying for his mommy, but he doesn't remember who his mommy is. We only called him Edward because it was awkward without a name. Did I say something wrong?"

"No, it's just..."

Again, she trailed off. This time, when he spoke, his voice was softer, a pang of genuine sympathy in his tone.

"You lost family at the Clock Tower, and maybe you wanted someone to understand what you'd gone through?" he hazarded, and she gave a small nod, "my family were killed too. That's why I wanted to work with orphans, you know? I wanted to make a difference for kids who grew up without their parents, like me. And ... like you, I guess."

He reached out to put a hand on her arm in what he probably thought was a reassuring manner, but she jumped back out of his reach before he had even made contact. By the time she was able to gather her wits and go red with embarrassment, her hand had already dipped into the pocket where she was keeping Alana's flick-knife. She only hoped to God that he hadn't seen it.

It didn't seem like he had. Instead, he reached out towards her, his mouth open with shock, his own features taking on a glow of their own.

"Oh, God! I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

"Hey!" a voice yelled from across the lobby, moments before Alana thundered over like an angry, redheaded storm cloud, "who the fuck are you?"

The young man recoiled, and then recovered himself quickly. "Oh, my name's Caleb - Caleb Moore - but everyone just calls me..."

"Yeah, save it," she snapped, jaw set, eyes narrowed, looking for all the world like a shark ready to torpedo straight at his jugular, "stay away from my sister or I'll cut your fucking balls off."

"Okay, okay, damn," he said, backing away with his hands raised, before jerking his head in the direction of the vending machines, "can I at least get something to eat?"

Alana snarled, and Kay backed away another step, obviously deciding that it was better not to antagonise the woman standing in front of him. Instead, he simply turned to face Leanne.

"Sorry again," he offered, before walking away towards the elevators.

Leanne watched him leave. She understood that her guardian was just making sure that she was safe, that her motives were good and that she herself had been so kind to her thus far, but it was hard not to feel frustrated. The thought of someone else touching her _had _freaked her out, but that didn't mean she had wanted him to leave. In truth, she had enjoyed the chance to speak with someone other than police officers or psychologists. It had been awhile since she'd been able to do that.

It was more than that, though. Speaking to the boy, who was about her age, had worked where she had once lived, and who seemed to know what she had been through, made her feel somewhat less isolated, somewhat less alone.

And, right then, she'd probably have given anything not to feel that loneliness anymore.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The interviews with the other survivors went about as well as could be expected. Caleb Moore, the caretaker who had been found in the orphanage's wine cellar with the boy, had been the most useful witness. He'd described the Scissorman in detail as the perpetrator, which would help immensely in forcing Weaver's hand. Apparently, Dave hadn't been the only one to clash with the killer either, as the younger man was showing a few lacerations from a straight blade that could only have been the infamous scissors.

To his surprise, the boy - whose name was Edward, but not really - proved to be the least help. He didn't recall anything of interest from the orphanage, other than being trapped in the cellar. On top of that, he couldn't remember anything that had happened prior to when he'd been found in the Barrows Mansion two weeks earlier. He was sullen and unresponsive for the most part, and Dave quickly wrote him off as a bust.

It occurred to him as he was leaving their room that, had the Scissorman not attacked the building while he'd been visiting that day, Weaver would have had his way with the case. Edward's testimony would have been inconclusive to keep the manhunt going. Instead, the new turn of events had opened up so many new doorways to him and the rest of the investigative team. His own report would be enough, but combined with Caleb's, they now had enough evidence to exonerate Leanne from the label of fantasist.

He visited the blind girl last. She introduced herself as Millie Rose, and she was a sincere and helpful child. She listened intently to his questions without interrupting and answered what she could, though there was little that would really assist him at that point. Her description of the Scissorman matched Caleb's, but didn't add anything to it. She couldn't remember what he looked like under the mask.

The only memory she had of the moment when his face was exposed was her own sudden blindness, as though her eyes had just given up the ghost. It was an eerie thought, that an unmasked Scissorman could steal away someone's sight. He didn't like the idea much.

When he was finished with his interrogation, she asked a question of her own.

"Where's Miss Klein?"

At that point, Dave was too tired to think of a comfortable deception, nor was he happy with the idea of simply leaving the duty of telling her the grim truth to the nursing staff. They had enough to deal with. And so, the detective did what he usually did when he found himself in doubt. He told the truth and hoped for the best.

Millie Rose wasn't ignorant of death, but she certainly wasn't emotionally stunted either. She cried for a solid twenty minutes in a way that earned the blond himself a lot of dirty looks from passing porters, even when he let her cling to his torso and bury her tear-streaked face in his shirt. She understood, without it needing to be explained, that Miss Klein was gone forever, and that someone was responsible for her being gone. Dave didn't have children of his own, and couldn't remember enough about his own childhood to know when it was suitable for a child to know about death, but she knew and accepted it quickly.

Sleeping in a strange bed wasn't a new thing for her either. Pretty soon after she had calmed down, one of the nurses had come to tuck her in, and he had given her a pat on the head and wished her goodnight before departing. It almost seemed like a shame, to leave her there alone, but the hospital staff would be there for her if she needed anything. Besides, right now he needed to go home and be with his own loved one. That was more important than anything else.

He waited for the elevator, but because there were only two, and over a dozen floors, he gave up after a few frustrating seconds and started down the stairs instead. By the time he reached the last flight, he was taking the steps two at a time, his pace impatiently rapid. He leapt the last four, before straightening and smoothing down his jacket. Then, he pushed into the lobby. Alana greeted him with a tight embrace and a kiss, while Leanne offered him a wave.

She was a quiet kid, and obviously enjoyed her privacy, so he tried to make sure she got time to herself where possible. His girlfriend seemed to think she wanted to talk, and would spend hours trying to get her to speak with them, but Dave knew she would come to them as and when she felt comfortable. There was no point in rushing her, anyway. They had no intention of asking her to leave before she was good and ready.

He was also met by the two police officers who had been assigned to their little trio by Weaver, a pair of veteran beat cops who knew all the tricks. He shook hands with them and introduced them to Alana, who eyed them suspiciously. They were supposed to make them all feel more comfortable, but there was an unspoken consensus among the three of them that this was an unwanted precaution.

In fact, if the blond hadn't known better, he'd have thought that this was the Chief getting back at him for going over his head. The older man hadn't seemed very happy about that when they'd spoken, but he hadn't so much as said anything about it at the time.

The men obviously didn't like the idea of following them everywhere anymore than they did, but they were professional enough not to say it.

"Alright," Dave said, once the initial spate of greetings was over with, "let's head home."

"Hey, Dave," the stout redhead beside him began, as they walked towards the hospital's main entrance, flanked on either side by an armed guard, "you think, maybe, we might be able to stop on the way home and pick up some ... coffee cake?"

Ordinarily, she wouldn't have needed to ask him if it was okay. Her wish was his command. On this occasion, however, they had a couple of others whom they had to check with. "That okay with you, Leanne?" he asked, receiving a nod from their charge, before turning to their escort, "what about you guys?"

"We're just supposed to follow you, Detective," one of them - a surly, dark-haired fellow - replied, "you can do what you like."

"Coffee cake it is then," he announced, and Alana let out a cheer as they passed out into the cool air.

It was dark now, and stars were starting to twinkle in a sky of midnight blue. Beneath the orange luminescence of the street lamps, a row of cars gleamed, among them the two four-doors - one black, one green - owned by Dave and his girlfriend. The patrol car driven by the two officers was parked between them.

Someone walked past them and through the door, into the hospital's lobby, a blonde girl in a blue blazer and skirt. The detective followed her with his eyes, brow furrowing as he fought to work out why he recognised her.

"What's the matter?" his partner asked, when he paused mid-stride.

"I know that girl from somewhere," he replied, "just wish I could remember where."

As he turned to walk to his car, as the automatic doors hummed shut behind him, the girl in question surveyed the hospital's foyer, smiling to herself.

Alka Kunnas was on the case.

-x-x-x-x-x-


	5. Scenario Two Question Everything

**Scenario Two: Question Everything**

"There you are," a familiar voice said, as Alka stepped into the corridor, "I was beginning to think you weren't going to show."

Jake was standing at the door to the employee elevator, looking about as suspicious as it was possible to look. Seeing her had obviously been a relief for him, since he was most likely paranoid about getting caught. She'd tried to assure him that there was nothing to worry about, that sneaking her into the room of a pair of potential murder case witnesses wasn't something that was likely to get him fired, but it didn't seem to help.

"Hey, its not easy to avoid arousing suspicion when you're walking around the staff-only area of an empty hospital," she informed him, "do you know how many people think I'm your girlfriend now?"

"Oh, yeah, great," he grumbled, "thanks, Alka. Charlie's gonna _love _that when she finds out. And you know she will. You _know _what a bunch of gossip queens they are here."

The blonde brushed him off with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I wish you were as confident about your relationship as she is," she said, stepping into the compartment with him and clapping her hands together, "but now, to business."

He craned his neck to search the hall for anyone who might have seen them, and then pushed the button for the eighth floor, where two of the survivors of the Granite Orphanage currently were. The G.P.D would have guards watching their room, but she had devised a foolproof plan to get around them, not that Jake gave her any credit for it. The subterfuge made her feel like a real reporter, not just some temp at a newspaper office. These were the kind of schemes hatched by a world-weary journalist who toppled dictators and brought injustice to light with the written word. It made her tingle just thinking about it.

"Why do you want to talk to these guys so bad, anyway?" her grudging partner-in-crime asked.

"The police are saying it was just a fire, but I _know _there's more to it than that," she told him, "I think it has something to do with the Clock Tower Killings. Imagine - more murders, a police conspiracy to cover it all up - this could be the biggest story in Greenville history."

And she, Alka Kunnas, aspiring journalist, was going to be the one to break it. Not only would she be able to pen the piece of her career, before it even started, she'd finally be able to show Angela Leavantis - her supposed mentor - what she was capable of. She had fetched coffee for the other woman for the last time.

Right now, Angela was chasing up leads with the fire department, certain that the cause of the orphanage blaze had been arson. Alka had excused herself under the pretext of being tired, and then arranged to meet Jake - a friend of hers and orderly at Greenville General - whom she'd co-opted into getting her access to the patients. She was going to scoop her fellow blonde and put herself on the map, all in one fell swoop. She'd prove that she had what it took.

"I think you're reading too much into it," he replied, "but then, that's you through and through, isn't it, Alka?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I'm just saying, what's more likely - an overloaded socket or murder, arson and conspiracy? You're always looking for something more than there is?"

"But what if there _is _something more?"

He snorted. "Guess I can't argue with that."

The elevator came to a stop on the upper floor, the doors sliding back with a musical chime, and they stepped out. Once again, Jake peered around, and she elbowed him in the stomach in an effort to get him to knock it off.

"Did you do what I told you to?" she asked him.

"Yeah, I signed you in as an orderly-in-training, just like you asked," he said, presenting her with a visitor's badge on a cord, which she looped around her neck, "you even sure this'll work? I don't think the cops will fall for it, to be honest."

"Of _course _it'll work," she replied, "but thanks, Jake. I mean it. It's really good of you to do this for me."

"Hey, I'm not in the habit of putting my job on the line - not just for the sake of someone's curiosity, at any rate. I'm only doing this because you helped Charlie find her dad. I owe you for that."

"Don't worry. As far as I'm concerned, we're even after this."

"I wouldn't get my hopes up too soon if I were you," he cautioned, as they neared their destination, "this still might not work."

He led her to the double door that opened onto the observation room where the two male survivors were being kept. There were two metal folding chairs standing outside, both of which were empty.

"There's always supposed to be one guy on the door," Jake complained, "typical. Probably had some kind of emergency inside while his buddy was in the can. They should have just called a nurse. They _never_ stick to the goddamn procedure. Okay, Alka, you stay here. I'm just gonna see what the problem is."

He pushed through the entrance into the next chamber, leaving her standing in the hallway. Knowing her luck, the other officer would return before her friend came back, and wouldn't even stop to listen to her carefully crafted excuse before ejecting her from the building. She couldn't help fidgeting now that she'd made herself suitably nervous.

She checked that her Dictaphone was still in her right pocket, her notepad and pen in her left. Then, she began to fiddle compulsively with the strap of her bag, and checked that her visitor's pass was plainly visible every few seconds, as though that would help.

That was when she spotted the half-eaten apple lying on the floor beneath one of the chairs. At first, she thought it was simple carelessness, or a lack of concern for hygiene, but she quickly realised that the apple hadn't been thrown away - it wasn't even starting to brown with contact to the air. It had been dropped, and recently.

She licked her suddenly dry lips, and started to seriously consider following Jake, when she heard a scream from inside the isolated ward that made her heart start to thunder in her chest. She stood for a moment, wondering what to do, and then moved to go after him, calling her friend's name. By the time she had wrapped her fingers around the handle, however, she saw a flash of movement in the small, round window of distorted glass, and then the doors were thrown open violently. She let out a scream, hopping back as the door slammed into her shoulder and made her grimace, her arm throbbing with sudden pain.

Jake staggered backwards through the door and hit the wall hard, hands clamped around his stomach, his uniform soaked with blood. Even as she watched, a hunched figure wearing a black shroud flew out after him, plunging an enormous pair of scissors into his torso. She watched, stunned, as he screamed, droplets of red spraying from between his lips. His attacker twisted the weapon in his belly, and she cried out again.

That was when she snapped out of her trance, grabbing her bag by the strap and swinging it like a mace, slamming it down on the killer's head. It staggered, surprised by the unexpected attack, its grotesque face turning to glare at her, and then she swung for it again. One of its hands left its blades, snatching at the bag in the air and ripping it out of her grip. It tried to pull itself free and come after her, but Jake grabbed it around the wrists, holding it closer, opening the wound in his sternum even further.

"Alka, run!" he screamed, wrestling with the creature, crimson drooling in earnest over his lower lip and chin.

Her mind frozen with terror, she could do nothing else but obey, her body turning her around and fleeing before she even had time to consider the sense of the action. She could hear the sounds of his fighting, of his death, behind her as she ran, and it made her sick.

The first door she came to was the men's lavatory. She didn't stop to consider the impropriety of it; she simply threw it open and hurried inside, though she was at least relieved when it turned out to be empty. Sinks and mirrors lined one wall; a series of urinals lined the other. It occurred to her, faintly, that this was the first time she had ever been in a bathroom that had those, but she had other, more important, things on her mind at that moment.

She threw open the first cubicle, and recoiled immediately at the sight that greeted her. A police officer, probably one of the one's assigned to guard the two orphanage survivors, was lying face-down in the toilet bowl, a gaping wound in his back. The door bumped into his wide posterior, stopping it from opening all the way. She backed into the wall, unable to take her eyes away from the corpse. She knew she should be checking the other cubicles to find one she could hide in, that the Scissorman would be right behind her, but she was struck by a sudden idea.

She slipped into the stall, letting the door swing shut, and checked the dead man's belt, hoping that his gun would still be there. Unfortunately, it was gone, probably confiscated by the rampaging serial killer that was currently chasing her. That was when she heard the door to the bathroom bang open, and she felt a shudder run down her spine.

Quickly, desperately, and unable to think of anything else, she stepped onto the officer's back, cringing as her weight pushed his face deeper into the bowl. She pressed herself to the right-hand side of the cubicle, clinging to the wall in an attempt to keep herself upright on her unsteady perch. She heard footsteps outside, and a dark figure passed by, casting its shadow under the door where she was hiding.

After a few moments, she heard the slam of a door as the person checked the cubicle at the very end. It swung back on creaking hinges, obviously having revealed no one to the murderer, and then the second-to-last stall was flung open with a bang. She remained silent, even as her foot started to sink into the gory wound in the man's back. Blood began to soak into her sock, seeping between her toes, but still she kept the hush, feeling as much as hearing the third door fly open. Hers would be next.

She couldn't help but jump as it came shooting towards her, before ricocheting off the body just as it had done when she had tried it. As it swung back, she heard almost what sounded like a chuckle coming from beyond, and then more footsteps as the monster withdrew from the room. She held her breath and kept quiet for a few moments longer, before stepping down to the floor, unable to suppress a noise of disgust as her bloody foot squelched wetly on contact with the tiles.

She peered out of the cubicle, breathing a sigh of relief when she realised that she was alone. Unfortunately, that might not have just been true about the bathroom. With Jake, the orphanage survivors, and the police officers all probably dead, she may very well have been alone on that floor of the hospital - alone with the Scissorman.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Minutes passed, and Alka still wasn't any closer to figuring out what she should do next. She began to hope that someone would come in looking to use the bathroom; the embarrassment would be worth it to know that there was another person still alive. Unfortunately, it didn't happen, and she began to wonder if her stalker had gotten to everyone else on the floor before Jake and her.

While she tried to think, she splashed cold water on her face in an attempt to give herself some clarity - she had heard it was supposed to help. She washed off her sock, figuring that if she was going to squelch every time she took a step, she'd rather it wasn't blood sticking to her foot. None of it brought her any closer to a revelation, and eventually she realised that she was going to have to take her chances outside.

Swallowing hard, she went to the door and pulled it open gingerly, creeping out into the corridor and looking first left, then right.

That was when the Scissorman lunged for her from his position beside the exit, bringing his twinned blades around to cut off her head.

She ducked, screaming, hearing the scissors slam into the doorframe above her head. She wheeled away, rounding on him as he pulled his weapon loose from where it stuck, and she seized her moment. She kicked out at him, her foot hitting him in the stomach, and he staggered backwards with a groan, sinking to one knee. She considered advancing on him, only for him to snap the blades at her, leaving her under no illusion that she would come out worse in a fight.

She ran, leaving him to recover in her wake, as she charged through a pair of double doors and into the ward beyond. Here, there was noise; the sound of light snoring and the quiet beeping of machines monitoring vital signs. There was a porter sitting slumped in a chair, the front of his uniform shirt soaked with blood, a red gash in place of his throat. There would be no assistance here.

Instead, she thought only of hiding herself away. She slipped behind the curtain of the nearest bed, where an elderly man lay unconscious and breathing gently. She practically held her breath as she waited for the killer to follow her, hoping that he would turn and leave without checking for her, lest he risk waking the patients.

Unfortunately, even as she stood, stock still and silent, she heard something behind her that made a chill run down her spine.

A weak voice cried out for the nurse, a dry croak that could not have reached beyond the veil that was shrouding her. But with repetition it grew in strength, and she knew with certainty that it would draw the murderer straight to her. She didn't try to keep the man quiet; she knew it wouldn't help. He was frightened, and trying to clamp a hand over his mouth while she talked him down would only make things worse. Instead, she dropped to the floor and scrambled under the bed.

There was something to be said for being as small in stature and slender in build as she was. The hiding place would have been a tight squeeze for anyone else, but for her it was quite an easy fit. Even as she wriggled out of sight, however, she listened with horror as a tragedy unfolded above her.

The curtain was thrown back, a scream rending the air as the prone patient saw the monster that was chasing her. The bed shook, its springs bowing and pressing onto the backs of her calves painfully, as the Scissorman leapt onto it. There was a wet thud, and the old man's cry turned into a choked gurgle, even as the blades impaled into his chest were retracted.

A moment later, they were thrust down again, and again, and again, each stab ripping into the mattress above Alka's head and making her fearful of being run through herself. She clamped her hands around her ears and tried to blot out the noise, to control her fear and keep the murderer from finding her. Warm fluid drooled onto the backs of her fingers, soaking into her hair, running down her neck, and she shuddered, tears beading in her eyes.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ended, and her pursuer jumped down from the bed.

It took her a few moments to realise, with horror, that the other patients in the ward were crying out as well. Deaf to their pleas, the dead porter watched the floor with a glassy stare as the killer butchered them where they lay, and she cowered, helpless, under the bed, trying desperately not to hear their last moments.

-x-x-x-x-x-

It was minutes later when she finally dared to crawl out from beneath the bed. By then, the last of the patients had fallen silent and the killer had left the ward, apparently satisfied that she was not there. When she emerged, she found the room soaked in blood. Prone figures lay on the beds, or on the floor beside them, stabbed through over and over, until their torsos were riddled with holes. It took all of her self-control to prevent herself from spewing bile across the floor at the sight and at the hot tang of freshly spilled gore in the air.

In truth, she matched the décor rather perfectly, having been doused in crimson while she had been hiding. To look at her, someone could have easily confused her for one of the murdered incumbents, though her clothing was admittedly not the usual attire for someone who was hospitalised.

She tried to think of a course of action, but nothing came immediately to mind. Her last encounter with the Scissorman made her wary of leaving the room, but if she didn't then she'd be trapped there. She wanted to think that the killings had already been reported, but she knew it could well have slipped under the radar, and might do all the way up until morning. After all, the Clock Tower Killings themselves had only been discovered because of an earthquake in the area of the Barrows Mansion; otherwise, they might have gone unnoticed for weeks. She couldn't rely on anyone else; she had to escape the hospital herself.

She searched the cabinets belonging to the patients, hoping she could find a phone, but all of the electronic equipment seemed to have been confiscated by the nurses. It was only when she'd looked through the contents of half the bedside tables that she remembered it wouldn't do her any good anyway. The cellular mast was still out of commission, and she wouldn't get any signal anywhere in the city. That left her with only one option; she would need to find a landline somewhere.

She stole out into the corridor, cursing her squeaking shoes as she crept across the linoleum. Her knowledge of hospitals wasn't great; she'd never had that many excuses to be in one, and generally she found them to be quite unhappy places. Now, she was beginning to wish she'd paid more attention, because for the life of her she couldn't remember where a phone might be in an intensive care ward. The only idea she had was that it would be an office of some kind, and when she saw an arrow pointing towards the "Nurse's Station", she seized upon it.

The hallways were lined with bloody streaks along the floor, as though the Scissorman had been dragging his victims back and forth. A couple of beds had been abandoned in the hallway, prone figures covered in red-stained sheets lying atop them. Pale hands and feet, and tufts of gore-caked hair protruded from beneath the shrouds, and Alka didn't need to pry any further to know who and what they were - more patients, more victims. The killer had been busy.

The Nurse's Station turned out to be a desk at the very centre of the floor, standing before a door and a wide window that looked into an office. A woman dressed in blue scrubs was sitting slumped over the desk and, judging from the pool of crimson haloing her head and pooling on the floor beneath her, it was unlikely that she was sleeping. There was an internal phone resting nearby, but the cable attaching it to the wall had been severed, rendering it useless.

She left the desk, with its sticky scarlet veneer, and pushed into the office, hoping to find a phone that would give her an outside line. The previous vandalism suggested that she wasn't going to have much luck, however.

The interior of the small room was as grim as the exterior. A female orderly was lying slumped on the floor in front of a sink, her features a bloodied pulp. A pile of her teeth were lying on the draining board amid a pile of shattered crockery, where someone had rammed her face-first into the plates stacked there. It occurred to her that most of the victims she had seen, other than Jake and the patients whose ward she had just left, had been taken by surprise. That, or they had turned their back willingly to their attacker. Maybe the killing spree hadn't begun with the mask and robe on.

Unfortunately, whoever they were, they hadn't left any witnesses to identify them, if anyone _had _seen them.

She rummaged through the disorder that was the Nurse's Station and eventually found a phone lying under a fallen stack of paperwork. She lifted the handset to her ear and grimaced when she realised that there wasn't a dial tone. It took her a few moments to realise that the cord connecting it to the cradle was snapped, seemingly through sheer wear and tear. She swore and slammed it down, then threw the entire thing across the room.

She put her hands to her face and heaved out a sigh, slumping against the counter behind her. The evening had started out looking so promising, and then suddenly it had turned into a nightmare. She wondered if maybe this was how Leanne Rosier had felt when she had been adopted by the Barrows family. Full of hope and then crushed by an unexpected despair.

It occurred to her that she was still covered in drying blood, and she moved over to the sink, using a dishcloth to mop up most of the blood staining it. Before she could run some water and wash her hair, however, she heard a thud from outside that made her skin prickle.

She spun to look out through the large window, ducking low so that she would be harder to see from outside, and saw a dark flash beyond the glass. She held her breath, hoping against hope that she was being rescued rather than stalked, and then something lunged towards the pane, making her slip backwards and fall on her behind.

A dark shape smashed through the glass, sending crystal fragments skittering across the floor. Alka covered her head, unwittingly crying out as a hail of glass rained down over her. The figure disappeared behind the desk at the centre of the room and she threw herself at the door.

At the last second, as her hand was reaching out towards the door handle, she shot a look back over her shoulder and saw the slumped body of the woman from outside lying in the glass from the window. She froze, her arm outstretched towards the exit, and then a pair of metal blades stabbed through the door, jutting towards her even as she started to back-pedal. An enraged growl followed, and then a boot slammed into the wood, throwing it open in front of her.

The Scissorman stalked into the room, and Alka decided to take her chances with the window. She scrambled up onto the shelf below the broken pane, kicking shattered pieces aside with her flats, and jumped down to the floor outside.

Acting on instinct, she grabbed the office chair that the dead nurse had once been sitting on and threw it at the door as the killer tried to follow her out. She glimpsed it stumbling and falling as she ran past, hearing it let out a grunt as it crashed onto its side on the linoleum. Even so, she didn't stop for a moment, sprinting down the corridor as fast as she could. She could feel warm lines forming on her calves as blood seeped from wounds on her knees, cut by the glass she had shuffled through to escape, and tried to ignore them.

She ducked into a side-passage and found herself in a short hallway with only one other entrance - a pair of double doors directly ahead. Her hopes that it would be another corridor vanished when she shoved through them and found herself in an operating theatre, which was - for want of a better phrase - a dead end.

But it was less an operating theatre and more an abattoir. The tiles were slick with gore. Bodies hung suspended from the metal beams that supported the ceiling, mostly hospital staff, but some were patients. Their faces were slack masks of horror, their bodies pocked with dozens of small wounds, each one in what she guessed was a major artery. The blood had poured from them in thick rivulets, running along their limbs and torsos like fat, crimson veins to pool upon the floor.

It looked as though the Scissorman had strung them up, jabbing at them with his blades as they dangled and flailed helplessly, until they were dead.

Alka was so engrossed with the horror of what she was seeing that she completely forgot that she was being chased until she heard a clatter from the main corridor. She ducked down, moving away from the door and pressing her body into the space between a small metal cabinet and the wall. Minutes passed, but the murderer didn't chase her inside. She finally allowed herself to breathe easy, knowing that she was - for a while, at least - safe.

But another noise from inside the room caused her heart to start hammering once again, before she could listen and realise what she was hearing. It sounded like a child, sobbing.

-x-x-x-x-x-

"Hello?" she hissed, her voice walking the line between a whisper and a shout, as she tried to call out to the child, without being heard by her stalker.

The sobbing stopped, and she wondered if the kid - wherever it was - was listening for her to speak again. She started to crawl from her position by the door, deeper into the room, avoiding the puddles of gore that were pooling around her, running in thin rivers of red along the gaps between the tiles. As she moved, she looked for a likely hiding place, all the while wondering if she had been hearing things.

"Can you hear me?" she asked, a little louder this time, "are you hurt? Don't worry; I'm not here to hurt you, honest."

Shaky, uncertain breathing was coming from behind a metal cabinet at the back of the room, almost matching hers. She pulled herself onto the balls of her feet and slowly rose, standing up and leaning over the polished work surface so that she could see the other side. There, cowering behind, was a small boy with short blond hair, clutching his knees under his chin tightly. He turned to look up at her, his expression sullen, his eyes dark and filled with tears.

"Hi there," she said, as softly as she could manage, "who are you?"

"Edward," he replied, his voice equally soft, "I lost Kay."

Alka's brow furrowed as she tried to work out what the boy was talking about, and then decided that it didn't matter. "Listen, Edward, there's a bad person running around in this hospital, so I need you to come with me," she insisted.

She wasn't going to take the chance that the Scissorman wouldn't return to the operating theatre and find him. It would be better if they stuck together. That way, if she found a way out, she wouldn't have to come back for him. She held out her hand towards him, and he hesitated for a few, long moments, before finally reaching out and gripping her fingers with his. Even as she was leading him towards the door, however, she realised that she would need some way of protecting herself, and him.

There wasn't a lot in the room, other than corpses and medical equipment, but eventually she settled on a long, thin metal rod that put her in mind of a police baton. It was supposed to be part of an I.V. stand, she realised, but it had been snapped off, probably during the fighting. She didn't imagine all of the people here had died without at least trying to fend the killer off.

She left the room, Edward in tow and pole in hand, and passed through the antechamber that linked it to the main corridor. She scanned the passage quickly, and picked right, the way she had originally come. If the Scissorman had run right past her then she didn't want to risk going the same way and stumbling over him. As she reached the turn off to the next hallway, however, she heard footsteps approaching. With one hand, she shoved the boy behind her, lifting her weapon in the other, and as the sound of someone coming nearer grew louder, she swung.

"Ow, hey, watch it!" a voice cried out, the figure that rounded the corner holding its arm up to ward off the attack.

She caught him with a stiff blow on the elbow before she realised that it wasn't the murderer and stopped. Instead, she found herself looking at a handsome, dark-haired man wearing a hospital gown, same as the kid cowering behind her. Even so, she kept her guard up, just in case. She had seen what happened to others who let their guard down around people just because they didn't look like a psychopath, and it hadn't been pretty.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded, ready to give him another battering if he tried anything.

"The name's Caleb, Caleb Moore," he told her, rubbing at the bruise she had left on his arm as he looked her up and down, "but everyone just calls me Kay. And I ain't no murderer, sweetheart."

"Kay?" she asked sceptically, and she heard the boy behind her repeat the name, leaning out to peer around her.

"Hey, champ," the man said, looking down at Edward and grinning, "been looking for you. Where'd you run off to?"

"Didn't," the boy replied, shaking his head emphatically. Both Alka and Kay frowned.

"Alright, well, now that I've found you, what's say we all get out of here?"

"Wait a second," she insisted, "you two are the survivors from the Granite Orphanage, aren't you? That means you've been here since this started. What the hell happened here?"

"Now ain't really the time, is it? Maybe I'll tell you some time when we're not being chased by some scissor-wielding maniac, deal?"

"Fine. So how _do _we get out of this hospital?"

"Well, the stairs are locked and bolted, and the elevators are shut down. There's no way in or out of this place that isn't a window, and we're on the eighth floor. And, as far as I can tell, none of the phones are working right now either. Any ideas?"

Alka tapped her finger against her lower lip for a moment, and then looked past him to a trolley that was lying nearby, where a dead man lay beneath a bloodied shroud. Her focus fell on the sheet, and a light bulb switched on.

"Maybe," she said, "any idea where there might be a laundry chute?"

-x-x-x-x-x-

As it turned out, Kay didn't have the faintest clue where they could find a laundry chute. He hadn't been looking for one and so he could have walked past one a dozen times and never noticed it. They would just need to search the floor until they found one.

Fortunately, they weren't that far away from the nearest. It was in a corridor that she recognised as being right around the corner from the Nurse's Station and, thankfully, there was a trolley laden with sheets - both dirty and clean - resting nearby. Alka kept Edward around the corner so that her newfound partner could drag the nurse with the broken neck out of the hamper and hide it somewhere the boy wouldn't see it.

Once he was done, she told him her plan.

"What're you, nuts?" he asked, once she had finished, "you want to make a rope out of sheets and climb down? You wanna fall and break your neck, or something?"

"Yes, Kay, that's exactly what I want to do, fall and break my neck," she snapped, "don't be an idiot. We don't have any choice. If we don't get out of this building, he'll find us and kill us eventually. If it were just the two of us, I'd say we could take our chances until help arrived, but I'm worried about Edward."

He grunted, looking first at her and then at the boy. "Yeah, me too," he said, after a few moments, "alright then, we'll do it your way. Hand me a sheet."

They worked on their rope while Edward stood close by, not daring to move out of their sight. Alka had met a few bratty kids in her day, and it was nice to find one who actually listened to what was being said, did what he was told and, above all, was quiet. It was especially nice considering their situation. He could have made things so much worse if he'd been like half the other children she was familiar with.

Eventually, between the two of them, she and Kay had created a ladder long enough to reach from the top of the building to the bottom, and she investigated the laundry hatch again. It was wide enough for all of them to climb into - Edward was naturally small, she would have no problems, and the minder was skinny enough. Even so, they'd have to be exceptionally careful about getting down, but then, that was what their line of sheets was for. Once she was certain that they had a chance of escaping, she took the bundle and dropped it into the hole, while her partner tied it off to a sturdy pipe in the ceiling.

She tugged on it. It certainly seemed stable enough to support her weight, and probably his too.

"Okay, so how do we do this?" he asked her, glancing around nervously, "who goes first?"

She considered the question, and then answered slowly. "Well, we need to be sure that the rope will hold your weight, so... You should go first. Then Edward. And then I'll come down behind you."

His eyes widened. "What about that freak with the scissors?"

"If he comes, then I'll try and lead him away, lose him, and double back to here. Then I'll climb down too."

"To be honest, Blondie, that sounds like a pretty shitty plan," he informed her, and she huffed petulantly, setting her hands on her hips, "I mean, if he shows up and you run away, what's to stop him from just cutting through the rope while we're climbing it. I'll stay. At least if he does come, I can maybe buy you guys some time to escape."

"Getting killed doesn't sound like a great plan either."

They stood for a few moments, glaring at one another, and then she dipped her hand into the inside pocket of her blazer, taking out a coin.

"Okay, heads or tails?" she asked, to which he just stared at her blankly, "I think we've established we can't debate this one out, so let's just leave it down to chance."

He sighed. "Tails."

She flipped. For a moment, as it sailed through the air and back into her hand, she smirked at the farce of tossing a coin for an outcome that neither of them particularly wanted. Even if she did think her idea was the most sound of the two, she still didn't want to have to tangle with the murderer again. She knew she could only be lucky so many times before the worst happened.

Fortunately, when she unclasped her fingers from the dollar resting in her palm, it turned out to be tails. Her feelings were mixed, and she shot Kay a pitying look. His jaw was set and his eyes were hard, as though he were trying to keep his emotions under control and only partly succeeding.

"Alright," he said eventually, "get climbing."

She turned to the laundry chute and climbed in, gripping their makeshift line tightly, her fingers going white with the tension. Once she was halfway in, she turned to Edward.

"Kay's going to count to ten, Edward, and then you need to climb down after me, okay? Don't worry. If you fall, I'll catch you, but hold on really tight."

He nodded, and she made a silent prayer that she would be able to catch him if he fell. He didn't look heavy, but then, she would be in mid-climb, and he might just knock her down to the bottom of the shaft. She tried not to think about it.

Then, her eyes took in her partner of the last few minutes. He gave her the same signal that he was ready, and in that moment she felt a pang of regret for what had happened to Jake. Here was another man seemingly ready to lay down his life for hers, and she couldn't help but wonder if it was simple altruism or some misguided attempt at chivalry. Sometimes, she hated being a woman; it made people's motives unclear.

Either way, she made a mental note to apologise to Charlie for what had happened to Jake, for getting him mixed up in all of this to begin with. If the girl could ever forgive her, then she'd try to make it up to her.

She started to make her way down, as Kay began to count, his voice resonating around the metal shaft. Once he reached the allotted number, she felt the rope jiggle in her hands, and then saw Edward appear above, little body shaking with adrenaline. As he made his way down towards her, she silently applauded him for how well he was doing. He couldn't have been older than eight or nine, but he seemed to be managing the ladder without much trouble.

Once she reached the very bottom, she would call up to Kay and make sure he was on his way down. Maybe she could find a laundry hamper to push under the chute to cushion his fall, just in case.

Unfortunately, they hadn't been climbing for longer than half a minute before she heard the snap of scissors from above, echoing down to them. The boy above stopped climbing, perhaps paralysed with fear, and Alka let out a panicked cry when she realised what a vulnerable situation they were in.

"Edward," she hissed, "Edward, I know it's scary, but you have to move. We have to keep going, or..."

There was a scream from above - a man's scream - and she knew almost instinctively that it was Kay. Her heart began to pound with terror, more so than it had been when she had just been exerting herself with the climb. As far as she could tell, they were less than halfway down, with four floors and the basement still to go. If they fell now and landed on concrete, they wouldn't survive.

"Oh, please," she breathed, continuing to shin down the line, hoping that the kid was following her, "please, God, don't let me die."

She managed to climb a few more metres, and noticed the opening for the fourth floor. Wedging her foot against it, she tried to push it open, but it wouldn't budge. An anguished moan escaped her lips and then she kept climbing, hoping that one of the other hatches would move. She was dimly aware of Edward following her, meaning that he had recovered his spell of paralysis, and that was good. She just hoped they both survived so that she could tell him how brave he had been.

The next aperture was sealed as well, as was the one for the second floor. Alka began to despair, until she reached the last floor before the basement, the one that would open out onto the lobby. She kicked against it, and felt a surge of relief when it swung open.

"Edward, down here, quickly," she called to him, leaning back into the wall of the chute and letting him drop to her level, achingly slowly, it seemed.

With her heart thundering in her ears, she helped him clamber through as best she could. Once he had disappeared from sight, she started to adjust herself so that she could follow, but then the rope she was climbing fell slack in her hands. She fell, at the mercy of gravity, trying to slow her descent by wedging her elbows and feet against the sides of the shaft, but she was out of control. Her right elbow slipped, and her shoulder banged hard against the metal wall.

Then she dropped into the basement, landing in a crumpled heap in a half-full laundry hopper. Crying tears of relief and agony, she curled up in the musty sheets, clutching at her arm as it throbbed from the impact.

Somehow, by some miracle, she had survived.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Armed police officers found her in the laundry room. Apparently, Edward had told them what had happened, but the hospital staff had already called the G.P.D when they couldn't gain access to the eighth floor, or contact anyone there.

They took her upstairs, where a single paramedic was looking after her charge. He was back to his sullen, unresponsive self, and barely even looked up when she came into the room. The E.M.T treated the small and large cuts on her hands and knees, from when she had climbed over glass, and informed her that she had badly sprained her shoulder. Once he had put her arm in a sling, he seemed content to just let her rest.

But she couldn't rest. Her body was humming with adrenaline, making her fidgety and anxious. Every time she tried to sit still, she found herself twitching or pacing nervously. On top of that, she was desperate to know what had become of Kay, whether he was another who had given his life to save hers.

The S.W.A.T team raid of the upper floor was in progress, she was told, and so she waited by the stairwell for news. Within minutes, she had her answer.

An officer partnered with another paramedic hurried down the stairs, bearing a lone figure between them. It was Kay, and his shirt was soaked in blood, a ragged cut marring the flesh of his chest. As they carried him past, in the direction of the makeshift triage station nearby, he looked him, his teeth bared in an anguished grimace. When he saw Alka, his eyes softened slightly.

"Glad to see we all made it out," he grunted, and then he was being taken away.

Her first instinct was to follow him and ask him what had happened, both here and at the orphanage. But right then, she didn't really feel like being a reporter - not for the moment, at least. Instead, she sat down by the bed they placed him in and waited with him, as they stitched him up.

-x-x-x-x-x-


	6. Intermission Three: Coping

**A/N:** All characters belong to their respective Deviant Artists. David Carter is me (Weskerian); Alana Rayner (Shakahnna); Alka Kunnas (ES-Dinah); Angela Leavantis (Paul16); Amy Adamaris (Twistazoomalark); and Leanne Rosier and Anthony Castleman (123LeaLea).

**Intermission Three: Coping**

Angela parked up in the lot across from the office and killed the engine. She was a little late. A couple of hours late, in fact. She flipped down the sunscreen and took a look at herself in the mirror on the backside. The evidence was staring her right in the face. Those bags. Those chapped lips. Those bloodshot eyes. And no makeup to paper over the cracks. No one could have mistaken her for someone who'd had a decent night's sleep.

She'd spent most of the night interrogating a stubborn fire marshall about the orphanage blaze. He hadn't given much away. In fact, he'd been the most reticent public official she'd ever had the displeasure to run up against. All she'd been able to learn, from his occassional bouts of contradiction, was that the fire hadn't been electrical. From that, she could assume it had been arson. Why else would they be looking to cover it up?

But even that was conjecture, and she couldn't take conjecture to her boss. Conjecture didn't pay the bills or put food on the table. She was still the golden child after the Officer Carter incident, but even those kudos wouldn't last her much longer. She needed something, and soon.

She clasped the two coffee cups against her chest, feeling the warmth through her suit jacket, and jerked her laptop bag up onto her shoulder. Then she locked up and slipped her keys into her pocket.

She started to walk towards the building and then ground to a halt a moment later. There was a crowd gathered at the front entrance, ten people deep. In all her years, she'd never seen a sight like that.

She hurried across the road, ignoring the blare of horns as she weaved through the traffic. The coffee sloshed. Errant drops soaked into her shirt and scalded tiny patches of her skin.

The mob at the door were reporters one and all. She could see camcorders and microphones on shoulders and in hands, and all were aimed at a figure in their midst. A girl wearing a blue blazer and skirt, her arm bound up in a sling. Alka.

"Miss Kunnas, what can you tell us about the hospital massacre?"

"Is it true the Scissorman was involved?"

"How many people were killed last night?"

Angela blanched. She didn't know what those people were talking about, but she could already tell she'd missed something big. Maybe heading back to her apartment for a nap hadn't been such a great idea after all. All the best stories dropped while you slept. Any seasoned reporter knew that.

Alka was floundering in a sea of hack journos. She'd been temping at the office for a couple of weeks and Angela had always thought of her as ready to take on the world. She had a reporter's sharp tongue and hard head.

But Alka the wannabe-newshound was gone. This was her first glimpse of Alka the college girl, lost and afraid, and the people around her were getting impatient for answers. This was going to get ugly.

"Alright, that's enough," Angela said.

Her voice was drowned out by the incessant questions, but she wasn't relying on her voice. She shoved the nearest cameraman aside, elbowed a microphone-toting woman in the back, and grabbed the temp by her undamaged arm. The coffee sloshed again. Hot water streamed into her cleavage and stung her in the naval.

"Next person who jostles me gets punched."

A hand snatched her elbow before she'd even made it out of the crowd. She glared back over her shoulder and locked eyes with Nolan Campbell, the Weekly's star reporter. Her main competition.

"C'mon, Angela. You think you can monopolise the exclusive just because she works for your office? She was only good enough for fetching coffee yesterday and now suddenly she's your best friend?"

"Don't touch me, you jerk," she snapped, wrenching her arm out of his grip.

One of the polystyrene cups slipped its styrofoam holder and burst on Nolan's chest like a water balloon. Everyone leapt back as hot coffee sprayed in all directions, then watched as he retreated, swearing and yelling, down the street.

It couldn't have been more perfect if she'd_ tried_ to do it.

She grabbed Alka and dragged her into the office, heading for the break room.

-x-x-x-x-x-

"Coffee?" Angela asked, setting the cup down on the table in front of Alka.

"Will it help?"

"Depends. If you've got a hangover or a deadline coming up, sure. Its less useful for a sprained wrist. It's black, so do you want cream or sugar?"

"I don't know. I don't usually drink coffee."

Angela blew out a breath. Trying to help this girl was hard work. She was proving just as reticent as the fire marshall from last night. Still, at least she had an excuse. That guy had been an asshole for the sake of being an asshole.

She'd heard from some of the others about the events at the hospital. It was weird to think of something like that happening in Greenville, of all places. Almost surreal. She'd already considered that it might be some kind of sick practical joke. Even that seemed preferable to the idea of a real-life mass murderer.

Her reporter side was excited, practically slavering at the idea of a scoop like this. It was hungry, and the scraps she'd been able to feed it of late weren't enough for it. The part of her that still thought like a civilian was nauseaous with worry.

"Why did you bring two?" Alka asked.

She shrugged. "Long night. Good job I did really, or we'd never have gotten rid of Nolan. What's the matter? Don't like it?"

The girl's face was wrinkled with disgust. She'd taken one sip, and that looked like it had been enough to sour her on the idea of black coffee for life. Maybe with a couple of years of reporting under her belt, she'd develop a taste for it.

"It's bitter," she said, "and revolting."

Angela laughed. "Yeah, sounds like French Roast. But, its not the taste we drink it for. Caffeine. It's every journalist's best friend."

"I'm not sure I even_ want_ to be a journalist anymore."

The chair screeched as the older woman pulled it back from the table and slid into it. She looked the girl dead in the eye. All sorts fell into journalism as a profession. Failed writers. Wannabe novelists. It was a last resort or a stop-gap, mostly. There were better ways to get famous or rich than print journalism. It was more honest than television at any rate. Even so, true believers were rare.

Girls like Angela, who'd grown up on stories about the integrity of the newspapers, bent their whole lives towards being reporters. Alka had seemed like a kindred spirit. If she was planning on giving up then this was serious.

"Alka, what happened last night?"

She hesitated, and blew out a shaky breath. "I went to the hospital chasing a story. It's where the survivors from the orphanage were being treated. And now, because of me, a good friend of mine is dead. I should just ... never have gone."

Angela listened, her lips pursing tighter with every word. The little brat had tried to scoop her, and learned the hard way that actions had consequences. And that sometimes those consequences were terrible. But that kind of guilt? She didn't think she'd ever had to wrestle with an inner demon like that before.

"How did he die?" she asked. She'd heard the rumours, about the killer, but she wanted to hear it straight from the source.

"He was murdered. By the Scissorman."

Angela sat back in her chair. This was stunning. The Clock Tower Killer, alive and in Greenville. And here she was, with one of the only witnesses. Hell, the only witness free to give a statement.

"Feels good to let it out, doesn't it?" Alka nodded. "Look, just start at the beginning. Tell me everything. Maybe I can help."

The girl was quiet for a few moments, and then she started to talk. When the gates opened, the truth rolled out like a flood. It didn't stop until the tale was done. She told Angela where she'd gone after they'd separated the night before. She explained why she'd gone to the hospital and how the boyfriend of a friend had smuggled her inside. She recounted the massacre that had followed, and the other two survivors, and the killer who had pursued her right up until the end.

"That's one hell of a story," she said, when she'd finished.

Alka sighed and stared into her coffee. Somehow, she'd managed to drain half the cup while she spoke. "You're right. It does feel good to let it out."

"Nothing was your fault, Alka." She stood up. Her seat let out a squeak of protest as it skidded backwards across the linoleum. "It wasn't your fault that there was a killer running loose in that hospital. And from what you said, that boy and his caretaker were lucky you were there. Don't beat yourself up about this. Don't let it ruin your life. You'll make a great reporter one day, if you stick at it."

"Thanks, Angela," the girl said, "I just need some time to think. That's all."

She walked around the table and put a hand to her shoulder. "Why'd you even come in today, anyway?"

"I thought work might distract me. I wasn't expecting so many people to show up outside."

"Some people are vultures in this industry. But then, it's not like there's an industry where that isn't the case. Sometimes, you've got to shelve the morality. Sad, but true."

"To make sure the truth gets told?"

She gave her arm a squeeze, hoping it was reassuring, and then turned to leave the room. "In the end, that's all that's important. I'll make sure no one bothers you. Take as long as you need."

"Thank you. Again."

"No problem." She stepped out into the corridor, out of earshot, and hit 'stop' on the dictaphone in her jacket pocket. "Least I can do."

-x-x-x-x-x-

"This is just _frigging_ great."

Detective Carter sat back in his chair, fidgeted, put his hand to his head, then thought better of it and banged his fist down on the padded arm. Amy watched him from across her desk, trying not to betray the fact that his aggression was making her nervous.

"Not even twelve hours after what happened at the orphanage, and we've already got _another_ massacre. Who the hell is this guy?"

"I understand that you're frustrated, Detective," she said, sifting through the files laid out in a spread across the desk, "but this won't help us solve the case, and unless we can offer a timely resolution, more people are likely to die."

It was an odd request to receive from the Greenville Police Department. In all the years she had been at the University, she had never profiled a murderer in Greenville itself. In the state's larger cities, yes, but never here. And now it seemed the first case would also be the most brutal she had ever seen.

With the lack of physical evidence and concrete eyewitness testimony, the police had turned to profiling, and Amy Adamaris's team, in the hopes that they might be able to fill in the blanks. She hoped she wouldn't leave them disappointed.

He sagged in his seat, glowing with embarassment and curtailed anger. She did her best to offer a warm smile as consolation.

"We've sent samples from the hospital to the lab in Empire City. We should hear back from them in under a week. It's not looking promising though. The witness statements don't reveal much. We can assume that the killer was targetting Edward, the boy who survived the Clock Tower. That and the scissors suggest it might be the same killer in all three cases."

"I thought the G.P.D's official stance was that Mary Barrows was responsible for the Clock Tower Killings," Amy said. Carter balked, and she hurried to reassure him. "As the investigating officer, I'll defer to your deeper insight on this case."

"Thanks, Prof. The fact is, the official line is that Mary Barrows is the perpetrator. But I think it'd be remiss of us to disregard Leanne Rosier's statement about the Scissorman."

"You may be right. All the same, this MO isn't consistent with the one used at the Barrows Mansion. There's no ritualistic aspect to these murders, and the victims aren't confined to children alone. There is a possibility that we may be dealing with a copycat styling themselves on Miss Rosier's testimony."

"Yeah, that's what Weaver thinks too. I'd like to know how a profile would change taking into account the first murders, assuming Barrows had an accomplice, and assuming that accomplice survived."

"Of course, Detective," she said, "I'll have my team work up both profiles tonight, and fax them to you in the morning. I'll let you decide what reaches Chief Weaver's desk."

"I appreciate it, Prof."

There was a crash from the next room, followed by lots of shouting. A slender eyebrow rose over her spectacles as she looked towards the door. Amy encouraged quiet speech. It was more conducive to a productive atmosphere. She hoped it wasn't her team causing the disturbance.

Carter was on his feet and at the door before she could react. All she could do was follow.

-x-x-x-x-x-

"I hope Kay's okay," Leanne muttered. She'd taken to chewing on her left index finger when she was bored. Right now, she was pretty bored.

"Kay?" Alana asked, without looking up from her monitor, "oh. You mean that little creep from the hospital?"

She huffed. "He wasn't a creep, Alana. How can you even say that anyway? You didn't stop to speak to him. You just scared him away."

"I'd only have hurt him if he'd been up to something. He ran away. Therefore, he must have been up to something. That's logic."

She didn't seem to notice when Leanne gaped at her. She couldn't think of anyone who wouldn't be intimidated by the sight of the two hundred and fifty-plus pound redhead storming towards them with murder in her eyes. The fact that Kay was no exception didn't mean anything.

"When are we going home?"

"As soon as Dave's finished talking to Professor Amy, and I've got my cunting back up of my dissertation off this fucking drive. Still can't believe that piece of shit laptop crapped out on me. We'll be home soon. What did you wanna do tonight anyway?"

"Watch a movie? Maybe order some takeout?"

"If that's what you want, sweetheart."

She sighed. What she wanted was to be out of that office. Everyone kept staring at her. Their desks were covered in newspaper clippings and file photographs from the Clock Tower. She felt like a freak.

She wanted to speak to someone who really understood. Not someone who was being paid to listen. Not someone who pretended to know what she was going through. Someone her own age.

She'd thought about going out looking for Kay, but they were keeping his location a secret now that it seemed like the killer was after him. There was the girl, Alka, too, but Alana had warned her to stay away from reporters. And the police officers escorted her everywhere these days anyway. Even if she could lose Alana, which she couldn't, the cops were always close at hand.

She felt trapped.

"You look distracted, Leanne. Is something on your mind?"

She looked up. Anthony Castleman, the shrink paid by the police department to hang on her every word, was looking back at her. He was standing next to Alana's desk, hands folded behind his back, suit creased to perfection.

"You didn't attend your session this week, dear. Are you unwell?"

She shrank back in her seat. He'd been pushing for her to return to Greenville Psychiatric Hospital since Alana had discharged her weeks ago. She didn't want to go back to that place, with its plain white walls and its doors locked and barred, and its patients mumbling and muttering and squawking at their own shadows.

"N-no. I-I'm fine."

"A lot's been going on, Doc. That's all," Alana cut in. Her arm moved across Leanne's chest, like she was trying to shield her.

She'd never been more grateful for that protective streak. It was hard to believe she'd been bemoaning it only a minute ago.

"It is still important for her to attend her sessions, Miss Rayner. Even more so if she has been under strain. I wouldn't want to see her relapse into her former distressed state."

"Yeah, well you don't need to worry about that. Dave and I are taking good care of her, so you just back off."

"Is that so? And I trust there has been no anxiety for you, Leanne? Perhaps you'd like to come back to the hospital with me. We can have your session now."

He put a hand to her shoulder. It made her skin crawl to be touched. Even Alana couldn't get away with doing it yet. She shrugged him off, but her self-appointed sister shot out of her chair like a rocket, fists balled. Her seat tipped over and slammed to the floor.

"Perhaps _you'd_ like to _fuck off!_" she snarled, dragging Leanne up by the arm and standing in front of her.

The room fell silent. The only noise was one of the desk phones ringing. One of Alana's colleagues was in the middle of a call, and just stopped, mid-conversation. They were all gaping at her. Leanne wondered if they'd ever seen her get mad before.

Dave emerged from Professor Adamaris's office, frowning as usual. Alana's boss followed close behind. She was an average-looking middle-aged woman. Her blonde hair was tied back in a tight bun, and she wore spectacles and a suit that rivalled Castleman's for the sharpness of its creases. She almost looked like his twin.

"What the hell's going on out here?"

"Detective Carter. Your partner and I seemed to be experiencing a difference of opinion. I think Miss Rosier should come with me. She is clearly distressed."

Leanne glanced down at her own hands and saw them trembling. She clenched fists, trying to stifle the shaking. But it was too late. He'd already called attention to it and now everyone was looking at her again. Little lost orphan girl. Survivor of a killing spree. Side show freak.

But she wouldn't cry. Even if she could feel the tears burning her eyes. Then they'd make her leave with him.

"She looks fine to me, Doctor," Dave said, "I think you should listen to Alana."

"That's not a helpful attitude, Detective," the other man replied. His tone wasn't as heated as the others. If anything, it seemed to have grown colder. "The Chief of Police might not be happy to hear about your unwillingness to cooperate."

Leanne looked from him, to Alana, to Dave. Her minders looked like they were moments away from fighting over who got to wring his neck. Professor Adamaris adjusted her eyeglasses and coughed. The cough was meant to be noticed.

"Is there a problem, Doctor Castleman? Did you have business with me, or my staff?"

He frowned at her, distracted from the confrontation, and now he looked like he'd lost his place. "I was asked by Hank Weaver to bring you my notes on Leanne Rosier's mental state at the time of the Clock Tower Killings. He wanted you to consider it when producing your profile."

"I will consider all of the available evidence, you can assure Chief Weaver of that. Perhaps you'd like to help me form the basis for my profiles. I could certainly use your assistance clarifying some of the finer points of this case, and your expertise of psychopathologies like these _is_ well-documented. I'm sure David and Alana are eager to get Leanne home so that she can rest."

He eyed them all in turn, first her, then Dave, then Alana. When he got to Alana, she flipped him off with a grin. He scowled at her, but that just made her grin wider.

"Of course, Professor," he said, turning to follow the blonde into her office, "whatever you wish."

Leanne watched him go, half-expecting him to round on her. But he didn't. He just disappeared through the door.

She didn't want to go back to that hospital.

Alana touched her on the arm. She didn't shiver quite so much this time.

"Come on, sweets. Let's go home. I'm done here, anyway."

-x-x-x-x-x-


End file.
